COLUMN: Footloose

Normal people's brains at midnight: Wow, it's really late. I'm very tired. I'm going to bed.

MY brain at midnight: Wow, it's really late. I'm very tired. I'm going to think about the movie "Footloose" for the next two hours.

Why my noggin occasionally shifts into overdrive in the pitch middle of the night is beyond me, but I've become accustomed to just riding it out. Why "Footloose" was tonight's topic du jour is anyone's guess, but it's likely because a friend of mine is directing an upcoming high school production of Footloose: The Musical (and if you fancy a drive to Monmouth-Roseville High come March 17-19, I have it on good authority that it's gonna be awesome. Spoiler alert: everybody cuts footloose.)

Here's a horrible confession that just might destroy my 80's pop culture street cred: I'm not sure I've ever seen Footloose all the way through. I've seen pieces here and there, but I'm not sure if I've ever sat down and watched it front to back. Truth be told, even 80's Shane found the movie kinda silly. 

As I recall, the plot goes something like this: Kevin Bacon plays Ren, an all-around cool teenage dude whose sole passion in life seems to be donning a pair of headphones and dancing around abandoned barns in slow-motion montages. Ren and his mom have just moved from Chicago to a rural town that hasn't received the memo about the whole separation-of-church-and-state thing. The citizens there are controlled by their conservative minister, who has convinced the town council to ban dancing, secular music, and essentially fun in general.

Rebellious Ren won't stand for that, so he does a lot of clandestine barn dancing, gives an impassioned speech to the town council, and eventually the minister relents and allows funkiness back into the lives of one and all, culminating in a senior prom for the ages. Presumably everyone lives happily ever after and are now raising their own children on a steady diet of Cardi B. and Skrillex.

I have questions.

Let's say you grew up in a town that has banned dancing. No one you know has ever danced. You might not even know what dancing IS. But then along comes this rebellious troublemaker with his big city tales of this mythical "dancing" you've only heard spoken of in whispers. This city slicker woos you with his devil tongue, telling you how amazing and free and wonderful it is to dance. You're enthralled by the concept. Eventually the unthinkable happens, good wins out, and you're allowed to have a school prom where you can finally, for the first time in your life, dance with carefree abandon.

You know what would happen? You would be the WORST dancer in the world, like, ever. We're talking Elaine Benes levels of bad dancing. Having never once even considered shaking your booty ever in your entire life, how would you even know what to do? You WOULDN'T. You'd be in a school gymnasium with 250 other absolutely rhythmless teenagers, gyrating randomly while continually apologizing to your date for repeatedly kicking her in the head while you were trying to bust a funky move. It would be an unmitigated disaster (but an amazing home movie for the ages.)

But that doesn't happen in Footloosetown. No, in the big prom scene at the end of the movie, all it takes is three seconds of the title track to play, and suddenly this packed gym full of never-danced-before children are suddenly pulling moves like professionals. One of them busts a full breakdance routine out of thin air.  

Also keep in mind, this town hasn't just banned dancing. They've banned all secular music in the first place. This is the first time these kids are ever hearing songs that aren't psalms. And yet, they all seem to strangely know the tune "Footloose" the second it starts. They know when the chorus is about to drop. They know where the bridge is. In fact, for a song they've never ever heard before, they somehow manage to spontaneously craft and perform a synchronized dance routine to it.

All of which can only lead us to one possible conclusion: KENNY LOGGINS IS A WORLOCK. How else can a dumb three-minute song suddenly get Louise, Jack, Marie, Milo, and everyone in the place to kick off their Sunday shoes and cut footloose? Clearly, Kenny Loggins is a dark wizard who can turn teenagers around, put their feet on the ground, and take ahold of their souls. Clearly, he must be stopped before he reaches... the danger zone.

But Ren really IS a hero, because he missed a delicious opportunity to conduct a cruel sociological experiment. If this town had truly succeeded in banning secular music, none of these kids would have ANY idea what secular music even IS, right? They wouldn't know a rock from a roll. You could've played them ANYTHING and told them it was the rebellious rock music they'd been missing out on. You could've played them "Elvira" by the Oak Ridge Boys. You could've played them Barney the Dinosaur. You could've played them a tape loop of a laughing hyena and been like, "doesn't this ROCK?" And then comes the REAL test of persuasion and peer pressure: Would those kids then still create a choreographed dance routine to laughing hyenas just because ONE dude from Chicago showed up and told them it was cool? I think it would've happened.

Sorry to waste so much time thinking about Footloose, but I strangely feel it's important to avoid any future scenarios where we encourage children to dance to laughing hyenas, even though it would be RIDICULOUSLY funny. And sorry to the 1980s for buzzkilling one of your most iconic pop culture offerings - I promise to never diss Ferris Bueller or The Lost Boys. But mostly I'm sorry to all my friends who woke up to a 2 a.m. text from me: "Kenny Loggins: Worlock? Discuss."

I was REALLY tired. 

COLUMN: Alien Invasion?

Seriously? You're reading MY column?

It's only been a few days since the United States government just casually admitted shooting down a handful of UFOs, and you're just sitting around with nothing better to do than peruse some local columnist? Shame on you. Clearly, you should be out panicking in the streets. 

This is NOT how I expected first contact to go, people. There should be at least a modicum of street panic, a slew of end-of-the-world rhetoric, and a healthy sprinkling of some good old-fashioned martial law. So far, this alien invasion is NOT living up to the movies one bit. I haven't even heard a single quip from Will Smith yet.

Okay, fine. So recent events most likely WEREN'T the opening gambits of an alien attack. Still, you've got to admit it was kinda cool, in a sci-fi geeky sorta way. The United States military really DID shoot down a handful of objects, and those objects really were both unidentified AND flying. By dictionary definition of the term, we shot down actual UFOs. This isn't an everyday occurrence. 

I know this because on Monday, White House press secretary Karine Jean-Pierre literally had to say the following words in a press conference with a (kinda) straight face: "There has been no indication of aliens or extraterrestrial activity with these recent takedowns." I never thought I'd see a day when the White House had to assemble the press of the free world in order to deny military engagement with an alien spaceship. I found it both ridiculous and reassuring.

It is ALSO, however, exactly what the White House would likely say if they HAD engaged in an alien dogfight. No one wants to host a press conference that redefines reality and throws a cog into most major world religions. Things like that usually don't end well.

I, however, will forever be Team Alien. I fully believe we're not alone out there. Go out on a clear night and look up at the stars. There's a kajillion of them. And beyond THAT kajillion is, like, a billion-kajillion more we can't even see with our naked eyes. It would be mighty presumtuous to think that, in all the solar systems in all the galaxies of the universe, WE'RE the only planet with one-celled organisms who had the wherewithal to grow legs, crawl out of the primordial muck, and build shopping centers. 

That said, it's equally presumtuous to assume that, should alien life exist, they'd want to come HERE. Let's be honest, if there's an E.T. society so technologically evolved that they've conquered interstellar travel, I don't think Earth would be high on their list of vacation getaways. There's little we're going to offer them apart from COVID-19, a hangover, and a souvenir plastic fish that sings "Take Me To The River" when you walk past it.

We should probably be happy that whatever we shot down last week doesn't appear to be alien in origin. If an E.T. species ever decides to visit Earth, it probably won't be to get our favorite hotdish recipes. It'll probably be because humans are the main ingredient in THEIR favorite hotdish recipes. Thankfully, it sounds like the things we've been shooting down are balloons and surveillance gear from other countries playing high-altitude peek-a-boo. This is where I also get confused a little.

Doesn't balloon flying seem like a rather outdated means of espionage these days? If you want to see the first-hand power of surveillance, just go to Google Earth. The images there are captured from satellites orbiting 370 miles above us. That would be the equivalent of trying to look out your window in Moline in an attempt to view Toledo, Ohio. Yet the resolution of Google Earth images of the Quad Cities is good enough for me to discern they were taken on a Saturday afternoon. Our parking lot at work is empty, which rules out weekdays. If you look down upon the parking lot of the Davenport Freight House, you can see clean-up underway from that morning's Farmer's Market. And if you can find MY house, you'll see my car outside, parked in a spot I usually only use when I'm loading equipment for a weekend DJ gig. 

If you can get all THAT from a satellite 370 miles away, what on Earth do you need to launch a mini-Hindenberg for? There's not much stealth at play when you can look up, point, and go, "What's with the big floaty thing in the sky?" It sounds like the first object we shot down was a Chinese balloon carrying a payload the size of three city buses. The other two objects we downed are still unknown, although they've been described as "octagonal, with dangling strings," which I'm guessing means either more nefarious balloonery OR giant flying squid monsters -- and in EITHER scenario, shooting them down seems like the optimal response.

Long story short, UFOs officially exist. But they're likely not the friendly little green men my childhood dreamed of. It's probably just the Chinese government trying to eavesdrop on my DJ set. If that's the case, my dudes, all you need to do is ask nicely and I'll send you a recording, promise.

COLUMN: Dream Bear

Normally, I try to be the guy who brings a little levity to your weekly news. Not this week. Serious faces, everyone. I need to let you in on a new and important danger that plagues our fragile earth and threatens our very way of life. This week, I'm afraid I'm the bear-er of bad tidings.

It all started last week when my friend Suzy posted a message on Facebook.

"I had the weirdest dream this morning," she began. "I dreamt that I let my dogs outside, but instead of living in Bettendorf, we had a house on a lake somewhere. The lake was frozen over and the dogs ran out on the ice, when suddenly a polar bear showed up and lunged at the dogs. I knew the ice would collapse, so all I could do was yell for the dogs to come. They outran the polar bear, but then the polar bear starting coming for ME!"

Thankfully, she woke up before the polar bear could inflict any dream-carnage. But even weirder than Suzy's dream was a comment underneath it from my friend Bill:

"I had a bear-mauling dream as well!" he posted. "It started out with bear cubs, but then mama bear showed up to do the deed, and next thing I knew, I was awake!"

Terrifying, right? How weird is it that two of my friends BOTH had dreams about being mauled by bears on the same night?

Thankfully, my nightmares are usually a little tamer. I had a dream that same night, too. In MY dream, I was DJing a wedding reception in some weird venue that was terrible. It was a fancy modern building, but it was wooden with huge vaulted ceilings, which turned the whole room into a giant echo chamber and the speakers sounded terrible no matter what I did.

So I kept struggling with the sound system, and the bride and groom kept yelling at me because it sounded so bad, and I kept trying to explain to them how it all due to the terrible architecture of the venue, but they didn't understand and blamed me for everything. At the end of the night, I had to go settle up with them, and I was afraid they were going to stiff me the payment because of how bad everything sounded. I walked out to find the couple, but instead of the bride and groom being there, it was instead... A BEAR. WHO PROCEEDED TO MAUL ME.

That's right -- for no particular reason whatsoever, killer bears played a prominent role in THREE dreams that night. This can only mean one thing, people: the great dream bear uprising is upon us. No one is safe. Somewhere in dreamland as we speak, an army of furry Freddy Kruegers is assembling. Good night, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite OR ALLOW THE BEARS TO EAT YOUR FACE OFF. The bear in my dream was not a friendly Teddy Ruxpin type. The bear in my dream was CLEARLY hungry for face.

I'm sure there's some common sense tactics we can employ to try and thwart the onslaught. I recommend an IMMEDIATE ban on any dreams involving pick-a-nicks or pick-a-nick baskets. Beware of hidden agendas -- your dream bear may say "waka waka" or "oh, bother" or go on a scene-stealing rant about how you can prevent forest fires, but trust me -- he still wants to eat your face.

There MAY be hope for us all, though. I had the misfortune of dreaming about a bear attack, BUT I may have also dreamt up the solution. In my particularly un-bear-able subconscious saga, I was eventually able to flee from the mauling and ran back into the wedding venue, where I happened upon the manager of the place. And, because dream logic is the BEST logic of all, the manager was -- you guessed it -- acclaimed actor Richard Dreyfuss. Why he was moonlighting as a wedding planner is anyone's guess. Maybe he needed a second income to buy a bigger boat.

The bear chased me into the venue, but ended up going after Dreyfuss instead. I had managed to climb a scaffolding (because, umm, sure,) and watched in horror as the bear ate Dreyfuss far more effectively than Jaws ever managed to. But a few seconds later, the bear keeled over and fell dead. And that's when I woke up from one of the dumbest dreams in recent memory.

I often forget my dreams within minutes, which is why I leave a little notebook on my nightstand for occasions just like this. I may have never remembered this one, had I not jotted down five words at 3 a.m.: RICHARD DREYFUSS IS BEAR POISON. You're welcome, world.

There's probably little I can do to stop the great dream bear uprising. The three of us really all DID have weird bear nightmares on the same evening, which is kinda spooky. But I guess next time you're asleep and having a close encounter of the bear kind, try to climb up something tall, dream up a Dreyfuss or two, and see what happens. Mr. Holland probably won't have a good opus, but you might just survive the night.  

COLUMN: Left My Phone at Home!

I'm in a panic.

Seconds ago, I just realized that I've done the unthinkable. I went home for lunch today and returned to the office without my cell phone. I left it at home. I hope it's okay without me.

I feel naked, afraid, and entirely cut off from society. Please pray for my survival.

 

Being without a phone these days doesn't even seem like a realistic concept, but I have to remind myself that I somehow survived over a quarter of a century before someone had the decency to invent the cell phone. This included my entire school career, up to and including college. I'm pretty sure telling kids about life before cell phones is this generation's version of "back in my day, I had to hike through three miles of snow barefoot to get to school."

But it's true. I attended high school AND college without the aid of a cell phone. When I needed to talk to a friend, I actually had to TALK to them (the HORROR!) If I wanted to play Words With Friends, I had to do it on a big square board the ancients called "Scrabble," and the Friends in question would have to actually come over to play. If I wanted to share a pic of my dinner, I'd have to bring a camera to the dining room table, wait 3-4 days for the film to be developed, and then walk around with a photo in my hand like, "See? Dinner!"

For now, though, I need to be strong. It's 1 p.m. I'm not going to see my phone again until after sunset. I quickly need to develop an action plan for how one navigates life without constant access to TMZ and Twitter. For the next five hours, I will have no earthly idea what Kanye West is doing or what beauty products Kylie Jenner thinks I should buy. It's going to be a VERY long day.

Honestly, though, how did one piece of equipment become so vital to human existence in such a short time? When I was younger, if I was stressed out or having a bad day, I'd grab a couple friends and we'd go bombing around lost highways and country paths until the wee hours of the night, cruising the backroads with the radio cranked. A few decades later, that sort of activity seems downright reckless. I'm not saying aimless driving is foolish or immature, because I still hop in the car and dip out to the sticks anytime I'm stressed out. But these days, I wouldn't dream of doing it without Google Maps and an instant connection to 911 in my pocket.

What would have happened to footloose and phone-free 1990s Shane had his car broken down at 1 a.m. along some gravel road in the middle of the woods? I don't even wanna think about it, but my best guess is that I'd have been eaten by wolves while crying for my mommy. Strangers who knock on the doors of country folk in the middle of the night are usually NOT greeted with a smile. I'm already worried about driving home tonight without a phone, and it's literally an eight-minute urban commute. I can practically see my house from the office.  

It's dumb to not have a phone with you at all times in case of emergencies. But it's equally as dumb to rely on those phones for as much as we do. I just realized I can't call a single one of my friends right now. This isn't because I don't have a phone. There's a landline here atop my desk, and I'm surrounded by co-workers whose phones I could probably borrow if I looked sad enough. I still wouldn't be able to call my friends, because I have NO idea what any of their phone numbers are. They're all programmed into my phone.

I used to know everyone's digits. I can still remember some of my friends' home phone numbers from the 1980s. But nowadays, even if I want to call my very best friend in the whole world, I would need to pick up my phone, click on "Recents," and find his name. Sometimes, I'm too lazy to even do THAT and instead just yell, "Hey Siri, call Jason" into the open air. And okay, sure, half the time when I do that, my phone will inexplicably reply, "Okay, calling BASEMENT" and one day I swear I'm going to let that call play out just to find out what "BASEMENT" is and why Siri knows its number.

At least once a year, I'll stumble across some article about the horrors of cell phone addiction, telling us we need to limit our screen time or we'll forget how to interact with our fellow man. I usually roll my eyes. It's hard for me to find a negative side to a device in your pocket that can communicate around the world, serve as a camera, and give you 24/7 access to maps, weather, news, and nearly every TV show, movie, and record album known to man. I'm guessing a good percentage of you are probably reading this column from your phones right now.

The key, I think, is striking a good balance. I try to live a life augmented by technology, but hopefully not reliant upon it. Sometimes I succeed in that balance, and sometimes I miserably fail. Either way, there's probably an app for that. Now, if only there were an app that would tell you when you're about to forget your phone on your kitchen counter, I'd be having a MUCH better day. Hold those tweets, everyone. No one go viral. I'll be home in five hours.

COLUMN: Javier the Time Traveler

In keeping with my role here as a hard-hitting journalist who focuses on the issues that matter, I feel like it's my duty to bring everyone up to speed on the latest developments in time travel.

Last time we spoke on this, I told you about a TikTok user named Eno Alric ("theradianttimetraveler") who purports to be a time traveler from the year 2671. Alric claims to have traveled to the past on a mission to spread warnings about our future fate. You know, run-of-the-mill events like California falling into the ocean, lizard people being among us -- and, per his latest TikToks, scientists will discover a bunker on February 27 containing an alien species that emits a liquid from its mouth that can stop human aging and make our skin rock hard. So there's something to look forward to.

Of course, Alric has also made countless predictions yet to come through, but I'd guess his truth-telling caused a rift in the space-time continuum, altered the events of future human history, and saved us from destruction. He's clearly the hero we need, and I see no reason to doubt him. After all, there's only two possible truths here: (1) A time-traveler from a future world has come to warn us of impending danger, and has decided the best way to do so is via an app where children lip-sync to vulgar songs; or, (2) someone on the internet is lying, which obviously never happens. If you can't trust a complete stranger on TikTok, who CAN you trust? This guy is clearly the real deal.

But friends, Alric is the least of our worries. Just when I got used to receiving urgent warnings about my fate from ONE time-traveller, another has shown up on TikTok. And this guy means business.

His name is Javier, aka "LoneSurvivor," and he, too, hails from the future. But apparently it's a DIFFERENT future than Alric, because Javier claims to be from 2027 and brings us terrible news. Apparently something rather bad has happened, and all of humanity has been wiped off the map -- except for him. He is the last surviving human. Fortunate coincidence, then, that the last surviving human ALSO has the ability to travel back in time and warn us of our doom, with only a mere four years to spare.

But owing to cold-hearted naysayers on the internet who don't believe him, Javier doesn't spend any time telling us what happened to the human race or how to stop the pending apocalypse. Instead, he spends his time on TikTok posting videos from 2027 as proof he's the last person alive on Earth. His evidence is indisputable.

For instance, in one video, he films himself walking alone at night in an empty parking lot. I don't know about you, but that's all the proof I need that humanity's been destroyed. I've never seen an empty parking before in my life. In another video, he's in a corner of a museum by himself and there's no one else there! My God, how can we stop this plague? Interestingly, though, the museum still appears to have POWER. The lights are on. Javier must have a portable generator he carries with his as he traverses the post-apocalyptic wasteland. That's the best way to explain how he charges his phone to allow him to take all these pics from the empty and desolate future.

I have to admit, I am a bit curious as to HOW humanity disappeared from the planet. In his many videos, we see Javier walking along empty sidewalks and buildings without any sign of other human beings. Had the apocalypse struck, wouldn't the earth be littered with a few billion pesky corpses laying about? In fact, Javier's apocalypse looks downright tidy. It's as if whatever killed off humanity at least had the manners to dust and polish the place before it left. 

There's also no sign of any animals in Javier's videos. I would assume that within minutes of the human race being raptured off the planet, Earth would pretty much belong to the raccoons. You'd think packs of wild chickens would be running the streets while bears hibernated in our skyscrapers, but it appears nature is keeping to itself in Javier's videos. 

Still, I see no reason to doubt Javier. Well, maybe one reason. Let's suspend disbelief and assume you live in a future that may or may not be a terrifying end-of-days hellscape. The GOOD news is that you've also just invented time travel (whew!). You can go anywhere, see anything, live in any era. You could hang out with dinosaurs. You could re-live the moment man walked on the moon. You could use your future knowledge to invest in Microsoft, buy a mansion, and live out your days in quiet anonymity. Or, out of all the eras of human history, you could be like Javier and return to that glorious decade when half the population hated the other half and a global pandemic was terrifying the world. THAT'S the era I'd like to visit, said no-one in the future ever.

But on the off-chance that you ARE a time-traveller and have returned from Tomorrowland in order to catch up with your favorite newspaper columnist of yesteryear, if you could let me know this weekend's winning lottery numbers as well as the plot of Season 4 of "Barry," I'd owe you a solid.

COLUMN: DJ RIP

Some weeks, I struggle to write this column, cursing the lack of inspiration over the previous week. For once, I kinda wish I didn't have any inspiration -- at least, not THIS particular inspiration. It's been a rough week.

As regular readers likely know, I spend my weekends moonlighting as a DJ at bars and clubs around the area. I've been doing it since college. It's my only real hobby and the one activity that generally keeps me centered and sane. 

It's certainly not the easiest side hustle to get into. For every working DJ in town, there's a dozen bedroom DJs honing their skills and trying to get into the game. Once upon a time, I was one of those bedroom DJs, trying to get noticed while simultaneously being intimidated beyond words by the guys who were already working those DJ booths around town. As a fresh face who moved here for college, it was tough to squeeze my way into a scene populated by talented locals who had grown up together and been friends for years.

As it turned out, the people I was intimidated by turned out to be some of the best friends I could have. When I started DJing in the area, I wanted to hate my competition like Donnie Haggerty and DJ Buddha. After all, we were fighting for the same crowds. Curse my rotten luck when I discovered they were super nice guys. In no time at all, we were sharing tips, tricks, and tunes.

Some of the biggest names in the local club scene got their start hosting ground-breaking hip-hop shows on St. Ambrose's student radio station, KALA. It didn't take long for me to learn names like Mixxin' Mel, GMJ, and DJ Commando. Chris Bone was a staple behind the mic on KALA, and he parlayed that college radio experience into becoming one of the most well-known country radio DJs in town. Eventually, Bone would open up Billy Bob's in the District of Rock Island and somehow convince me to work for him.

There was DJ Dolla, an enigmatic figure equally at home mixing at a Top 40 bar as he was DJing some underground house party at 3 a.m. On nights when Dolla wasn't working, you could often find him making the rounds with fist bumps and respect aplenty, often with his friend DJ Marco in tow. Marco was a wiry little guy with an infectious laugh, a million stories, and an undying love for ridiculous 1980's Miami freestyle music. Whenever I'd see him at one of my gigs, I'd drop a freestyle track. It would invariably kill the dancefloor, but it was worth it to watch him freak out with joy.

I also got to know Brian Duex, aka DJ Hi-Tech. Everyone knew Brian, because Brian was everywhere. Duex was a workaholic, grinding every weekend and taking any gig that would come his way. He was a formidable mixer, but his REAL talent was his unbridled optimism. He could take the world's worst gig and spend an hour telling you how much potential it had. His social media is full of shout-outs to other DJs in town. Brian would take it upon himself to organize regular informal DJ meet-ups, where many of the QC's most-storied mixmasters would gather together to tell stories, spin records, and spend quality time in the company of fellow music nerds. 

When I contracted COVID last year, Brian was the first to call and see if I needed anything. Through him, I met other local jocks, like Calvin Lloyd, who almost single-handedly kept Muscatine dancefloors bopping for decades. Brian, Calvin, and I became each otber's backups, there to help any time one of us needed a night off. Sure, we're all competitors, but the club DJs of the Quad Cities are also friends -- and I don't ever want to relive this past year with my friends.

It started in June, when we unexpectedly lost Chris Bone on the day he was to sign paperwork for his new business venture. November robbed us of Calvin Lloyd, taken at way too young an age. An I-80 car crash on Christmas Day claimed the life of Anthony Mullenberg, aka DJ Marco. And yesterday, I woke up to the devastating and unfathomable news that Brian Duex had shockingly passed. Just days ago, he was DJing across the street from me and we were sending good-natured texts over who had the bigger crowd. Just hours ago, I was rolling my eyes at the eleventy-millionth motivational post on his Facebook page and actually said out loud, "Brian, sometimes it's okay to be negative, dude."

It's tough to process his positivity getting extinguished. It's hard to believe I won't see Calvin's devilish smile ever again, or hear Marco tell me why The Cover Girls should've been as big as Destiny's Child. Quite simply, the area DJ scene will never be the same.

And I guess that's just natural. Some of those bedroom DJs will probably be leaping up, hungry to snatch up Brian and Calvin's gigs, and that's okay. Brian and Calvin and Marco are probably up there somewhere rooting those kids on. The power of music is bigger than the power of any of us. People will always want to dance, and there's always some new DJ trying to be a little bit cooler than the last one. Lord knows I've never been the coolest. 

But the next time you pass a dancefloor, take a second and think about the feet that've stood there before you, the records that were played, and the hands that played them. I'm sad that my friends are gone, but they wouldn't want us to be sad for a second. After all, nobody needs a DJ at a funeral. They'd want us to keep the legacy alive and the tunes blaring. And if there's a heavenly dance club out there, there's one heck of a DJ lineup this weekend.

COLUMN: Bald Eagle Days

There's definitely a list of things you have to experience at least once in your life before you can officially call yourself a Quad Citizen. I finally crossed one off the bucket list this past weekend:

I went to Bald Eagle Days.

The annual event at the QCCA Expo Center was back for the first time since the pandemic, and I finally got to take it in. Part animal exhibit, part conservation education, it's the largest event in the country devoted to our national symbol. This year's attractions included live eagle shows and Birds of Prey seminars from the World Bird Sanctuary of St. Louis. It was pretty cool.

Me and bald eagles have always had a weird relationship. I love animals -- but, by and large, only the cute ones. I'll watch cat videos all the live-long day, and is there anything better than playing with puppies? I think squirrels are adorable, even the ones who live in my backyard, clearly hate me, and make angry little "thk! thk!" noises every morning when I leave for work.

Bald eagles, on the other hand, are NOT cute. You don't want to snuggle one. They don't purr. They don't come when you call. With eagles, words like "cute" and "adorable" are replaced by words like "noble" and "majestic." That's a nice way of saying that if we were a bit smaller and eagles a bit bigger, they would have NO qualms whatsoever about flying off with us for a dinner date. There's a reason why bald eagles are the symbol of our nation and not, say, a labradoodle or something. Eagles are a little intimidating.

I got REAL close to the one that was at Bald Eagle Days, and I swear that thing saw right through me and stared directly into my soul. I watched children stare at him with admiration and wonder. I also watched him stare back, likely wondering what children taste like.

Once, I had to call in late for work with an excuse so weird my old boss still talks about it to this day. I was already running a bit behind schedule and had given myself only enough time to leap into my car and pray for green lights on the commute. Instead, I ran out to the parking lot and skidded to a halt -- because there was a bald eagle sitting atop my car, just hanging out like he owned the place.

Pray tell, what's protocol in a situation like this? There I was, staring down an endangered creation of nature and the very symbol of our independence. Do I shoo it? Is it even LEGAL to shoo it? "Say, uh, majestic buddy?" I inquired politely. "I kinda need to leave for work. So, umm, git?" For the record, it did not "git." I attempted to make a move for the driver's door and he did that weird bird thing where his head turned to me while his body stayed completely motionless. Nope, nope, nope. I wasn't getting anywhere close to that thing. And THAT, friends, is why I had to call in late to work on account of eagle. I ended up standing there for ten minutes like a moron until a passing car finally spooked him away. 

This year, my car's almost become TOO good of a friend with one of our bald buddies. On two occasions now this winter, there's been a bald eagle playing aerial acrobatics and skimming WAY too close over the Centennial Bridge. The first time it happened, my car was at the apex of the bridge precisely when this eagle swooped not more than two feet over the top of my car. The second time it happened, I swear a talon actually touched my front windshield for a split second. Had that daring bird not put in a couple of extra flaps, I'd be riding around with a majestic and endangered hood ornament -- and there's just no way to be the good guy when you've got the literal symbol of freedom splattered over your front grill.

What surprised me most about Bald Eagle Days, though, were the OTHER creatures on display. I'm not sure whose idea it was to bring live eagles to an event and then fill the rest of the expo center with animals that eagles like to eat, but all creatures great and small appeared to be on their best behavior and I don't believe anyone got to witness the circle of life play out on the convention floor. There were porcupines and wolves and a poor terrified little skunk. There were hairy spiders and what ominously looked like empty tanks where other hairy spiders should have been. And yep, there were loads of bats.

Eagles might be scary, but bats are straight terrifying. I'm not especially sure why Mother Nature felt the need to bless our world with rabid winged rats, but these particular mini-vampires seemed healthy and their cages seemed secure, so I timidly approached. Surprisingly, they didn't try to stick a single fang into my neck. They were just (literally) hanging out, yawning and snoozing. Dare I say it, they were almost... cute. And that was the precise moment one bat woke up, gave a great big yawn, righted itself, spread open its wings to reveal its nekkid little bat body, stared me straight in the eye, and peed alllll over the place, almost including my sleeve.

I don't know what kind of weekend YOU had, but unless you can top getting stared down by an eagle while getting flashed by a peeing bat, I'm pretty sure I won. 

COLUMN: Heat Out

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through my dwelling, it was so freaking cold that it merits tale-telling.

How were YOUR holidays? Mine proved a little more interesting than expected. Having recently recovered from the flu (note: do NOT recommend), I was all set to make up for lost holiday merriment in the run-up to Christmas. Then Winter Storm Elliott came along with predictions of anywhere from 1-30 inches of snow followed promptly by blood-freezing wind chills unfit for human life. Fa la la la la.

So instead of firing up the yule log with friends, I spent the holiday week making sure I was well stocked on pantry provisions and knew where the flashlights were. Truly, it's the most wonderful time of the year.

The good news was that our frozen friend Elliott only ended up dropping a dusting of snow in my neck of the woods. Unfortunately, though, the forecasts were spot-on when it came to the cold... I think. I wouldn't know for sure, because I spent much that time snug under a blanket with no intentions of stepping outside until possibly spring.

That lasted until the night before Christmas Eve, when I woke to find my furnace completely off and my house rapidly losing heat. I know a thing about HVAC maintenance and repair. Specifically, I know how to turn the furnace off and back on -- to no avail. Having thus exhausted my vast HVAC expertise, I started calling service technicians, who were certainly eager to hear from customers in the middle of night on Christmas weekend in -40 wind chills. I called twelve places and got through to two. Both were booked solid and couldn't work me in for days, but a third outfit called me back and their overworked service tech said that since I was without heat, he could probably get to me sometime the next day. 

I bundled up and went to bed, but woke up a couple hours later sweltering. At some point, the furnace had kicked back on and my house was toasty. I did a quick happy dance and went back to bed, only to wake up freezing again at 5 a.m. Maybe having heat was a dream? I was planning on spending Christmas Eve drinking cocoa and watching bad holiday movies. Instead, I found myself hopping in the shower and bundling up to be at Wal-Mart when they opened at 6 a.m. on an emergency mission for space heaters.

By the time I got out of the shower, the heat was back on and the house was warming up. I wasn't excited to keep playing this fun game, so I layered up until I was comprised of 80% coat and waddled my way to the garage. I'm always worried about my poor Hyundai in the winter because I don't think Korea experiences -50 wind chills too often. But she sprang to life with little difficulty and I made decent time through the arctic tundra to Wal-Mart.

Not decent enough time, though, to get a space heater. They'd been sold out for days. A similar story awaited me at a couple other stores before I gave up and headed home. The heat was out again when I got home, so I posted an open plea on Facebook for any friends with space heaters to spare. 

When you post on Christmas Eve that your heat's out in the middle of a blizzard, LOTS of people step up. Within an hour, I had over a dozen offers for space heaters, a couple invites for Christmas dinner, and one person who thought they'd seen a space heater at Lowe's the day before. I called over there, and sure enough, they had a few left. You know, at the Lowe's that shares a parking lot with the Wal-Mart I was JUST at. So I bundled up again and made my second lap around the Quad City Iditarod -- but this time, I came home with two gigantic space heaters.

Minutes later, a friend showed up with two MORE. And just as we had all four up and running full blast, the furnace kicked back on. Minutes after THAT, the HVAC repair guy I'd talked to the night before showed up at my front door. When we had spoken, I had (accurately at the time) told him that my heat was completely out. It was probably not the best look, then, when he arrived to find a functioning furnace, four space heaters on full blast, and a thermostat reading 82 degrees. Let's just say I caught some disapproving glares. 

In the end, it turned out my furnace was shutting itself off because of overheating, which seems a ridiculous problem for a furnace to have. Shouldn't a furnace be COMMENDED for doing it's job TOO well? You never hear things like, "I'm sorry, sir, you can't come in to Olive Garden today. I'm afraid the food here is overdelicious." But overheat it did, due to overuse and a half-frozen air intake line we had to thaw out.

I haven't lost heat since, but maybe it doesn't matter. It's now two weeks later and I'm wearing short sleeves because it feels like spring out. I kinda want a holiday do-over, which I guess I'll get in roughly 50 weeks or so. Of course, by then I'm guessing we'll all be underwater and possibly quarantining from toxic lobsterpox, but at least I'll be nice and toasty.  

COLUMN: Best of 2022 - TV

Well, here we are at the end of the year, when we're supposed to look back and celebrate all the great events of 2022. There was, umm, let's see... well, that part wasn't so great. Oh, then there was that time when... oh yeah, that was pretty terrible, too.

Let's be honest. The past few years have been rough. Sometimes the best parts of 2022 involved IGNORING 2022, turning on the TV, and being taken away to fictional lands of other people's problems. 

Life may be a tad sucky in the 2020s, but television's never been better. I read a recent article that claimed our new golden age of TV may be winding down, and that's a bummer. Recent cutbacks at Netflix and HBO may be indicative of streaming having jumped the gun and invested too much in quality shows without paying attention to profits. There's a chance we may have been overly spoiled the past few years. So before good shows go the way of the dodo and we're left with nothing but America's Next Top Masked Chef Model Can Dance, let's celebrate some of the amazing TV fare that 2022's brought us. These are my picks for the five best shows of the year.

#5 - THE GREAT NORTH (Fox) - Ever since the pandemic hit, I've yearned for heartwarming TV fare. My usual tastes are a combination of snarky comedies and esoteric arthouse dramas, but when we were in lockdown and feeling hopeless, I didn't want jaded jokes or depressing realism. I mostly just wanted fluffy shows where people hugged each other a lot. Ted Lasso became my hero. The Great British Baking Show became my comfort food. Positivity is important. I just never thought I'd find it in a quirky animated sitcom from the Bob's Burgers team. Each week on "The Great North," the plucky Tobin family faces life in rural Alaska with togetherness, fortitude, and unpredictable jokes that land faster and harder than you'd expect. Add an outstanding voice cast of Will Forte, Jenny Slate, Paul Rust, and Nick Offerman at his most Offermanic, and you've got the feel-good show of 2022.

#4 - DERRY GIRLS (Channel 4 / Netflix) - This year also saw the third and final season of this global treasure of a show. "Derry Girls" was always funny, but taking a year off for the pandemic must have allowed creator Lisa McGee to fine-tune the writing, because this wonderful farewell of a season is SO next-level funny that I found myself hitting pause so I didn't miss anything over my own laughter. It's a giant love letter to friends, family, and growing up in the 90s in Northern Ireland. Its humor is only matched by its heart. "There's a part of me that doesn't really want to grow up," says lead character Erin in the final episode. I couldn't agree more, and I don't want to say goodbye to any of these characters.

#3 - STRANGER THINGS (Netflix) - 2022 featured a slew of acclaimed series at the height of their creativity and passion. Shows like "Better Call Saul" and "Barry" deserve every accolade thrown their way. BUT honestly, sometimes you just wanna put the heady stuff aside, make some popcorn, and watch kids fight aliens from a parallel dimension. Critics have never been especially kind to "Stranger Things," but has there been a show that's left a bigger dent in our pop culture landscape this year? "Chrissy, wake up!" memes flooded the internet all year, Metallica got a huge bump in sales, and the show's soundtrack even brought Kate Bush an unexpected #3 chart hit some 37 years after its original release. That's got to mean something. The Hawkins saga IS great television. Is "Stranger Things" going to win an Emmy for its nuanced writing and relevatory character studies? Nope. But will it be one of my favorite shows of all time? Absolutely. The Duffer Brothers have been able to perfectly straddle the line between teen adventure and sci-fi horror for four seasons now. When the fifth and final season drops next year, it'll be the talk of the globe.

#2 - LOS ESPOOKYS (HBO) - It came as a surprise to no one when HBO cancelled "Los Espookys" mere weeks after its second season debut. It's a miracle that something this weird even got two seasons in the first place. But what gloriously bonkers seasons they were. Created by SNL and Portlandia alum Fred Armisen and writer/co-stars Julio Torres and Ana Fabrega, "Los Espookys" is a surreal workplace comedy -- except the workplace is four friends who stage horror events (fake exorcisms, bloody Quinceneras, etc.) for fans of the macabre. Oh, and did I mention that the show is entirely in Spanish? And that one character works as a Shakira impersonator while another can talk to the moon and has a demon called Water's Shadow living inside his mind? It's bonkers in the very best of ways, and you can still see every episode on the HBO Max app. 

#1 - SEVERANCE (Apple TV) - I'll say it right now. "Severance" might just be my favorite TV show since "Twin Peaks." I've watched the first season three times now, and I'm about to embark on my fourth. Each viewing is like peeling back an onion and discovering a new layer. You can't do justice to a show like "Severance" in a quick blurb. In fact, it sounds downright stupid: "A dystopian tale where willing participants consent to a brain-altering medical procedure wherein their work and home lives can be separated into two distinct personas." On paper, it sounds ridiculous. On the screen, it's genius. Creator Dan Erickson has crafted a complex and tense thriller that also somehow manages to be a treatise on grief AND a meditation on workplace culture. The script is brought to life in the most claustrophobic of manners by director Ben Stiller (yep, THAT Ben Stiller) and a dizzyingly sparse visual aesthetic that makes me yearn for a visitor's pass to Lumon Industries just so I can experience it for myself. Above all, though, it's just downright deliciously weird, with twists and turns and even Christopher Walken thrown in for good measure. It's funny, unsettling, and downright horrifying (sometimes in the same scene.) It's the kind of show the internet was invented for - I guarantee there's people in chatrooms right now dissecting scenes. I should know, I'm one of them. It's the best show of the year by a country mile.

Happy New Year, all! And even if its not, here's hoping there's good TV to distract us from it.

COLUMN: Best of 2022 - Music

Everyone has their favorite part of the holiday season. Maybe it's sitting down for a delicious meal with family. Maybe it's the look on someone's face as they open gifts. Maybe it's the spirit of togetherness, love, and joy that brings us all together. 

Me? My favorite part of the holidays is right now, when I get a few precious inches of column space every year to pretend I'm an important entertainment critic and offer my picks for the best records of 2022.

In many ways, it was a turbulent and trying year, and pop culture can often reflect that in unpleasant ways. But there WERE a handful of records this year that redeemed our cultural landscape and proved that creativity still runs wild, waiting for its moment to shine. 2022 produced some serious bangers, from the sunshine dance bliss of Sofi Tukker's "Wet Tennis" to the seedy underbelly of Taylor Swift's "Midnights." There were triumphant returns from stalwarts like The Boo Radleys and Suede, and admirable debuts from new faces like Horsegirl and Yard Act. 

But five records really stood out for me as 2022's best:

#5 - Andy Bell - Flicker - As guitarist for Ride and bassist for Oasis, Andy Bell has soundtracked my life for decades. For his second proper solo album, Bell went the extra mile and dropped a double-album that takes a multitude of seemingly disjointed ideas and crafts them into a cohesive record that ruminates on the passage of time and coming to terms with yourself: "Now time's not on our side / See the flicker as a fire starts to burn / It's not enough / Burn down the world for me / Use a mirror to remember, and look back with something like love." Whether its an introspective acoustic instrumental or brilliant hooks coming through a psychedelic haze, "Flicker" contains some of Bell's finest work and secures his rightful place as one of indie's great songwriters. A triumph of a record and an absolute treat for long-time and new fans alike.

#4 - Wet Leg - Wet Leg - Seemingly coming out of nowhere (but actually hailing from the Isle of Wight), Wet Leg hit the ground running in 2021 with a handful of ridiculously catchy singles that perfectly embodied the fun and care-free bliss of jaded youth. Wet Leg reject any attempts to take themselves seriously, and swear in interviews that they're embarassed by all the fuss being made over them. After all, they're a band formed on a lark while sitting atop a Ferris wheel at a music festival. But people SHOULD take them seriously, because the pop hooks flow like caramel on their frenetic debut album. If it's all a schtick, it's a very GOOD schtick, and almost justifies the overexposure they've received this year. The million-dollar question will be whether they've got the ability to convert this one magical musical moment into a triumphant career or if it's all just one brilliant flash in the pan -- but if it's destined to be just a fleeting firework, it's one of those shells that burns in a dozen colors and ends with a surprise explosion. 

#3 - Let's Eat Grandma - Two Ribbons - In 2016, I declared the debut album of Norwich duo Let's Eat Grandma to be the best record of the year, and rightly so. At the time, it was incomprehensible how a pair of young teenagers could have possibly crafted an amateur album so captivatingly weird and otherworldly in their bedrooms (often using non-traditional toy instruments.) At the time, the duo of Rosa Walton and Jenny Hollingworth explained their creative success as having been best friends from age four and operating on a shared wavelength. A few years down the road, and that friendship has now been tested. Hollingsworth lost her boyfriend to a rare form of cancer, while Walton moved to London and suffered a nervous breakdown. The tracks for Two Ribbons were written separately and contain lyrics of loss and failed friendship. Their charming ethereal kookiness might not be as pronounced as their earlier records, but this newfound lyrical honesty and depth serves the duo well, and the resulting record is an emotional synthpop rollercoaster and yet another triumph from a collaborative team that never seems to fail.   

#2 - Pale Blue Eyes - Souvenir - It was a couple months ago when my friend Stuart texted me a simple Youtube link with a text message that simply said, "!!!!!" That link ended up being to "Honeybear," the achingly beautiful centerpiece of the debut record from Pale Blue Eyes, a band that had previously been 100% off my radar. It was so captivating that I ordered the entire record on the spot. Hailing from a home studio in the small market town of Totnes in southern England, Pale Blue Eyes have somehow managed to fuse the best bits of vintage indiepop together into a modern masterpiece that wears its influences proudly but doesn't just sound like a 1980s nostalgia trip. The result is breathy dreampop atop quirky synths, Krautrock rhythms, and angular guitar lines clearly inspired by classic alternative bands like The Cure and New Order. I'd love a peek at their record collections, because I have a feeling they share a lot with mine. Far and away, they're my favorite discovery of 2022. "!!!!!," indeed. 

#1 - Alvvays - Blue Rev - Usually my favorite record of the year has to be some pretentious beast of an album trying desperately to make an artistic statement. This year, the accolade simply goes to a great band who just put out their greatest album. Alvvays (pronounced "always") are a Canadian indiepop band fronted by Molly Rankin, daughter of the late John Rankin, fiddler for the acclaimed Celtic folk band The Rankin Family. Until now, Alvvays were known for intelligent jangle-pop pierced by Rankin's resonant and languid vocals. When Blue Rev first arrived, I threw it on in the car, expecting a nice little slice of smartly dour pop bliss. But at exactly six seconds into the lead track "Pharmacist," the guitars explode out of the gate into a dizzying circular shoegaze epiphany that literally made me stop and replay the song a good half-dozen times as I drove around dumbfounded. The record simply soars and soars again, with pop hooks meeting sonic grandeur at every turn, but still with the signature underproduction that's always made Alvvays charming and homey. It's the kind of record that has at least five or six spots where I forget to breathe because I don't want to miss a second of its fuzzy grace. It's not an album that's going to change the world, but it's one that still captivates even after the umpteenth listen, and it's easily the best thing I've heard this year.

Next week, let's talk TV.           

COLUMN: Christmas Flu

Every year, I have but one holiday mission: to do my very best to find that elusive yuletide spirit. It really IS the most wonderful time of the year, and I yearn to recapture that Christmas magic I felt as a kid. Without fail, I will annually commit to the absurdly idealized Hallmark version of Christmas wherein everyone exudes happiness and love, true love could be waiting around every snowy corner, and all the world needs is some tinsel and twinkly lights to make everyone's problems go away forever. All you need to do is find a little Christmas magic.

This year, however, I've given up. The Grinch has won. There's no holiday magic to be found, people are pretty much horrible, and the tinsel and twinkly lights are just covering up the dark and glum reality of December. Fa la la la la. Perhaps the Constanzas had it right. Maybe Festivus is the holiday for me. If nothing else, it's high time I gave the Airing of Grievances a try.

It all started two weekends ago. I needed to pick up a few gifts, and what better activity than retail therapy to find that Christmas magic? I picked up my best friend and together we set off in search of holiday adventure. Earlier that day, another friend had texted that the Made Market at the Bend XPO was a haven for parental gift ideas, so we headed thataways. We walked in the door, and sure enough, the place was PACKED. Holiday crafts and a hundred potential gift ideas for Mom and Dad were everywhere! Most impressive, though, was the hustle and bustle of people running around all over the expo center. 

"Are you guys here for the market?" a helpful girl at the front table inquired.

"Yep," I replied in a voice that, dare I say it, was both holly and jolly.

"Too bad," she replied. "We just closed."

I had no idea it only lasted until 3 p.m. It turns out the hustle and bustle we were seeing were all the vendors quickly tearing down their booths. Sorry, mom. We spent the rest of the afternoon hitting up the downtowns of Moline and Leclaire, but gifts for mom and dad were still eluding me. No worries, the best was yet to come. I had a plan. 

Anyone who's ever seen a Hallmark Christmas movie knows that if you want to find Christmas magic and maybe even have a meet-cute with your soulmate, all you need to do is find an outdoor night-time Christmas market after dark. It's literally a factory for Christmas magic. That's why I was heading for the Davenport Freight House Christkindlmarkt with purpose and intent.

"That's weird," my friend suddenly said. "What's with all the people?"

Sure enough, we were miles from downtown but there were small crowds gathering along the roadside in places where crowds tend not to gather, especially in the December cold. "It's almost like they're... trainspotting or something." We looked at each other with instant realization. "CHRISTMAS TRAIN!"

Every year, Canadian Pacific rolls holiday-themed trains across North America adorned with Christmas lights. At select stops, the train rolls to a halt, the cars open up, and musicians jump out for surreal quick holiday concerts. It's fun and a great fundraiser for food banks. But as we drove along the highway, it quickly became clear that as we were aiming for downtown Davenport, so was the holiday train. And so, too, were thousands of other Quad Citians. 

You know the 1.5 minutes it usually takes to get across downtown Davenport? Thanks to holiday train traffic, it was more like 1.5 hours. Instead of romanticizing the holiday crowds, I quickly wanted to murder them. Pedestrians were just absent-mindedly strolling in front of traffic, cars were honking and getting exasperated, and Christmas magic was literally evaporating in front of my eyes. By the time we found parking (which I'm pretty sure was in Bettendorf) and hoofed it to the Christkindlmarkt, the band aboard the holiday train was hitting its last notes and the 2.3 kajillion people in attendance all converged upon the market en masse.

Suddenly things were less Hallmark-y and more Outbreak-y, as my mind flashed to newscasters warning of the "tripledemic" as I was bumping elbows with hordes of sniffling, snotty strangers. Add to that some overly-aggressive vendors ("HAVE YOU EVER HELD A REAL IOWA PORK CHOP IN YOUR HANDS, SON?") and suddenly the only place I wanted to be was HOME.

My spirit may have been dampened that night, but my yearning for Christmas magic carried on. The next day, I talked my friend into heading for the Christmas celebrations at Bishop Hill, and we spent the afternoon browsing handmade goods, baked deliciousness, and little stuffed Swedish gnomes that are supposed to lend a hand with chores -- but thus far, the one I bought just sits on my shelf like a lazy good-for-nothing. Oh, and if you happen to hear locals tell tale of a couple city slickers who accidentally bumped a table causing a model train to derail and emit sparks and almost burn down the most historic building in town, I'm sure they're talking about someone else.

But I'm happy to announce that the next morning, I woke to discover I'd caught Christmas magic. Oh, wait, no, that wasn't Christmas magic. Instead, what I caught was H1N1 swine flu. By mid-day, I was bedridden with a fever of almost 103. I spent the rest of last week scouring the Quad Cities for that most elusive Christmas gift of all: Tamiflu. I'll spare you the lectures, but seriously, get a flu shot. You don't want this. It was so gross in so many exciting and festive ways. And since I spent most of that bedridden week binge-watching Hallmark movies, I'm pretty sure I will now forever associate Christmas romance with nausea.

So apologies for my humbuggery, but Christmas magic is lost this year and the world is terrible. Or maybe that's just what Santa WANTS me to think. Please refrain from sending three ghosts my way, but if anyone has any Christmas magic to spare, I'm fresh out.  

COLUMN: Instafest

Ah, finally -- it's December. 'Tis the season for chestnuts roasting on open fires, Jack Frost nipping at your nose, and music geeks fighting across the battlefields of social media.

December is a great time to be an obsessive music fan. It's that magical month when you can pretend you're a critic and sit around figuring out all your favorite records of the year. Back in the day, I used to keep a mixtape in my car filled with my favorite songs of the year, in hopes of getting to explain my picks in lengthy detail to any of my friends unfortunate enough to ask for a Yuletide ride. 

In the modern era, though, we don't need mixtapes. Nowadays, music nerds can post their picks to social media and spend the entire month bickering with one another over their assorted merits. It's a grand and glorious time to be a geek. This year, though, a new app has thrown a ridiculous monkey wrench of silliness into our annual squabbles.

Instafest.app is a gloriously pointless time-waster that looks at your Spotify listening history and uses that information to curate a professional-looking flyer for an imaginary three-day music festival based entirely on your personal listening habits. The bands performing at your phony fest, and the order in which they're appearing, are all based on your Spotify plays and which artists you've listened to the most. It's the kind of thing music nerds drool over, and the results have been pretty epic. 

Take my friend Sharon, for instance. Her dream festival line-up includes a resurrected Prince showing up to throw down a set. That'd be pretty awesome. I'm guessing if Prince came back from the dead to headline a festival, tickets for that shindig might be hard to come by. But the BEST part about SharonFest? Prince isn't even headlining. As it turns out, the ghost of Prince, alongside the ghosts of David Bowie and Freddie Mercury, are all turning up to SharonFest to OPEN for the big headliner -- who is, you guessed it, 70s teen-pop idol Shaun Cassidy.

There's no lying to Instafest, that's what makes it so great. Music snobs like me pride ourselves on telling the universe that our favorite artists are weird esoteric bands that only a handful of music critics and record store clerks have even heard of. We don't tell anyone that we secretly get in our cars and blare Shaun Cassidy and Britney Spears when no one's looking. But on these Instafest line-ups, there's no hiding your secret shames. If you secretly listen to a bucketload of Nickelback, they're gonna be headlining your imaginary festival for all to see. 

For example, let's look at ShaneFest, the imaginary festival that Instafest curated for me based on my Spotify history. Out of all the countless musical acts on Earth, ShaneFest is being opened on the first day by... Bananarama. Clearly ShaneFest is going to have to invest in loads of security, because the crowd rush would be intense as fans try not to miss a second of Keren, Sara, and Siobhan breaking into "Cruel Summer." And yes, fellow nerds, I'm well aware that Siobhan left the group in 1988, but if it's MY imaginary festival, it's most definitely MY imaginary Bananarama original line-up reunion.

Day Two is where ShaneFest takes a turn for the odd. We start with the Northern Ireland pop-punk band Ash, and then go straight into a much-anticipated reunion set from 80s coffeeshop-soul heroes The Style Council. I'm pretty sure the Style Council were the second band to take the stage at the legendary Live-Aid festival, so kudos to the ShaneFest organizers for paying homage. After their polite set of catchy tunes, it's straight on to the industrial metal fury of Ministry. Style Council songs have choruses like, "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me or my world." Ministry songs have choruses like, "I'm chewing on glass and eating my fingers / Stigmata!!!! / You've run out of lies!!!!" This should be a smooth transition.

And what do Ministry fans clamor for right after their favorite band? Why, the jazzy noodling and clever wordplay of Steely Dan, obviously. Then it's back to more obscure indiepop for the rest of the day, until we get 80s indie darlings The Smiths to reunite at the end of the day. Note: If you know nothing about The Smiths, know this: They HATE each other. I mean, HATE each other. Pigs will fly and hell will freeze before The Smiths ever reunite. But they're doing it at ShaneFest, in order to open for the Trash Can Sinatras, a fairly obscure Scottish band often unfairly derided by critics for being, you guessed it, derivative of The Smiths.

On the third and final day of ShaneFest, I'll probably have to stop the show for a bit to explain to the crowd of indie fans why Chicago are taking the stage mid-day (my dad listened to them ALL the time.) Then, naturally, it's time for the Monkees. I'm hoping the SharonFest rules of resurrection are in play here as well, otherwise it's sadly going to be poor Micky Dolenz on stage by himself singing, "Hey, hey, I'm a Monkee," so I'm hoping I get to conjure up Davy, Pete, and Mike. They're opening for R.E.M., who are in turn opening for My Bloody Valentine. It's a banger of a day, people.

I'd certainly go to ShaneFest. I realize not everyone might appreciate the Pet Shop Boys opening for Weezer, but it's not called EveryoneFest, is it? Like all the other music nerds out there, I posted my fake festival flyer online, and within hours, I had numerous friends saying they'd certainly attend. In fact, two of the bands on the fake lineup even commented and said they'd be thrilled to be there. Weirder yet, 48 hours after I posted my silly fake festival line-up, two of my fake headliners (Ride and The Charlatans) announced a REAL joint double-headlining U.S. tour. Clearly, it must've been my fest that gave them the idea. I guess we'll know for sure if Bananarama or Steely Dan turn up.

Find out your own ridiculous festival lineup at Instafest.app. Another one of my friends just did it and his fest has the Beatles opening up for Kanye West, so hurry and make your fake fest quick, because I'm pretty sure THAT line-up might just herald the Apocalypse.

COLUMN: Grocery Shopping

I try to be an optimist, I swear. I'd like to think that the world is innately good, our lives somehow matter, and our very existence is making a difference towards the betterment of mankind. I don't like to give in to cynical thoughts and assume that we're beyond hope and essentially floating through space on a planet-shaped dumpster fire of pointlessness. But some weeks, I'm just not sure.

Pro tip: If you're wanting to keep those rose-colored glasses of optimism firmly planted on your face, avoid the grocery store at all costs.

Since the pandemic, I've been using one of those phone-app shopping services for my groceries. I started out of an abundance of caution, but I've stuck with it out of an abundance of laziness. It's just so nice to sit at home, punch in my shopping list, and have someone bring groceries straight to my door. Does it cost a little more? Yep. But I've done the math and I'm saving money in the long run. Sure, I'm paying a little more for delivery fees and tips, but I'm also spending way less on ridiculous impulse buys. I've literally walked into grocery stores on a specific mission to purchase toilet paper only to leave an hour later with a cart full of groceries I didn't need and then a realization three hours later that I forgot the toilet paper. A $5 delivery fee isn't so bad when it's saving me from a cupboard of junk food.

But last week was a dofferent story. I was tied up during the day and didn't have the opportunity to place an online order. I didn't want to make somebody shop for me after dark, and I'm fully capable of driving my lazy fanny to the store. So I hopped in the car for a fun adventure I'm hoping to never repeat.

I walked through the doors almost eager to remember what grocery shopping felt like. Then I remembered. It felt like... a LOT of people. The store was crowded. Like, REALLY crowded. People were everywhere. I took three steps before an unmasked fellow coughed pretty much directly into my face. Fantastic. I grabbed a shopping cart that rolled about 15 yards before its front wheel went into a seizure so violent that the entire aisle stopped and stared at me. Everything was off to a smashing start.

One of my first stops was to the deli counter, where my plan was to buy some lunch meat for sandwiches. It took the clerk roughly a minute and a half to acknowledge my existence.

"Umm... can I help you?"

"Yeah, thanks," I said. "I need about three quarters of a pound of ham, please."

The clerk looked at me. The clerk looked at the ham. The clerk looked at me. The clerk looked at the ham. Wheels were turning.

"Umm," he said. "Sorry, I don't do math. What is that in numbers?"

I'm not writing this column to make fun of people with terrible math skills. I'm one of those people. It's perfectly okay to be bad at math. My 8th grade algebra teacher lied to my face -- I have NEVER needed any of the skills from that class in my life ever, not once. I'm terrible at math, but I can at least figure out what three-quarters of a pound is. 

"It's .75 pounds." He plunked some ham onto the scale and it came out to .4 lbs. "Is that more or less than .75?"

I could probably turn this column into a scathing indictment of our public school system. I could go on about the ridiculousness of a human being asking ME for math help. I could ponder how someone who "doesn't do math" to the extent that they don't know 4 from 7 is somehow playing an integral role in MY personal food chain. Instead, I'll just skip to the end.

After getting coughed on, run over, and unable to find half the stuff on my list, I made it to the checkout. Just one woman in front of me with not many items. Whew. Then I heard her.

"Ohhhh no, no, no you don't!"

Apparently a cake mix had just scanned at a price higher than the sales flyer she was clutching. "You're trying to RIP ME OFF! MANAGER! NOW!"

There wasn't a manager nearby, or perhaps anywhere in the entire building from what I could see. The overcharge? Thirty cents. But it was enough to send her on a roll, shouting about injustice and capitalism to the winds. I was about ready to hand her thirty cents from my pocket when the cashier looked at the sales flyer and immediately caught the problem.

"Ma'am, look, it's the brownie mix that's on sale. This is the Funfetti mix, it's different."

The poor thing looked like she'd been stabbed in the heart. She huffed, she puffed, and then she bellowed with the full fiery intensity of Howard Beale on a bender.

"FUNFETTI... IS... BROWNIES!"

It was Academy Award-worthy emoting, I swear to you. I almost started applauding. I'm pretty sure the clerk may have just given up and handed her the Funfetti for free just to get her out of the store. I certainly wouldn't have blamed her. 

If you want to believe that the world is NOT a terrible place, don't go grocery shopping. If you want to hold onto hope that future generations will know the difference between 4 and 7, don't go grocery shopping. If you believe in your heart of hearts than Funfetti is brownies, don't go grocery shopping. If you want an ACTUAL pro tip, PLEASE go grocery shopping. For me. I beg of you. I don't want to go back. Ever.

COLUMN: Tasteless Candy

On today's episode of "Fun With Science," we celebrate those new and exciting discoveries that make our world a better place. Yes, we can all rest assured that the future is in great hands. Our society's brightest minds are out there right now, hard at work unlocking the secrets of the universe and solving the great problems that have plagued our fragile Earth for centuries.

Take, for instance, a team of Japanese scientists, who recently tackled a problem we've long yearned to solve: Is it possible to take something that is fun and then use science to completely remove all the fun from it?

The answer, it turns out, is yes. It is absolutely possible.

Just ask Lawson, one of Japan's largest convenience store chains. They just unveiled a new sensation sweeping Japan by storm: "Aji no Shinai Ame." This loosely translates to, you guessed it: Tasteless Candy. Science has cracked the code and finally figured out how to make a hard candy that tastes like -- nothing. And stores are selling out.

According to the packaging, Aji no Shinai Ame consists of polydextrose (a sugar substitute) and erythritol (an organic sugar substitute). And that's it. Just two compounds in a clear hard candy that looks like a cough drop but tastes like -- nothing. No flavor whatsoever. Just a piece of nothing that tastes like nothing and slowly dissolves into nothing in your mouth.

Clearly, this is the scientific breakthrough we've all been yearning for. How many times have you put a piece of candy in your mouth and thought, "Wow, I sure wish this candy didn't taste like candy! If only I could enjoy the pleasure of eating candy without that icky candy flavor!" Finally. Thanks, science. Famine? Disease? Pestilence? Those problems can wait. We're WAY too busy making candy taste like nothing.

When I was a little kid, I can remember my parents buying me a bag of marbles with one simple common-sense rule: DON'T PUT THE MARBLES IN YOUR MOUTH, YOU COULD CHOKE TO DEATH. And of course, what's the one thing you want to do when you're specifically told that you can't? That's right, at the first available opportunity that presented itself, I put one of those bad boys directly in my mouth to taste that sweet forbidden nothingness. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME, KIDS. Mostly because it's gross. I spit the marble out immediately. And then I washed it because I'm not a heathen. And then I never put a marble in my mouth again because my curiosity was forever satisfied.

But I'm pretty sure that's what nothing tasted like. I didn't like it as a marble, and I bet I won't like it as a cough drop, either. But I kinda wanna try one. 

What doesn't surprise me, though, is that this new culinary sensation comes from Japan. No offense to my friends in the land of the rising sun, but I've had a fair share of your candies, and in many instances, I would've preferred one that tasted like nothing.

Now, I'm fully aware it's simply a cultural difference at play. Don't think for a second that I'm making light of Japanese cuisine -- if I could install a teppanyaki grill in my kitchen, I would. But our candies and snacks are WAY different. I have a friend who moved to Japan a few years ago and occasionally sends us boxes of Japanese junk food. They range from amazing to amazingly demented.

In Japan, you can buy potato-flavored Kit-Kats. Or soy sauce Kit-Kats. Or corn-flavored Kit Kats. He once sent us a bag of Sprite-flavored Cheetos, and they were coated in fizzy candy like Pop Rocks that explode in your mouth like carbonated soda. Their chips are commonly shrimp-flavored. It wouldn't surprise me if they had shrimp that were potato-chip flavored. 

But turnabout is fair play, and American food can be equally weird to people living overseas. I'll never forget when my friend came back for a visit with his Japanese wife in tow, and she looked on with abject horror as I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, which is about as normal in Japan as a corn-flavored Kit-Kat is over here. So I guess to each culture their own, and if spending your hard-earned yen on a candy that tastes like nothing is what you fancy, have at it.

In fact, if you're a fan of the candy that tastes like nothing, let me know. I can cut you a great deal on a 70-minute blank CD -- wait, did I say blank CD? I meant to say "a new and exciting cultural milestone adancement." I call it "silent music," and it'll soon be all the rage. Taste the emptiness, and then enjoy the silence.

COLUMN: Jolene

Well, the midterms are finally over. Wow, what a crazy night. I still can't believe that [CANDIDATE] won! At least we can all agree that the country is in [MOST LIKELY TERRIBLE] shape, eh?

Okay, okay. I'm writing this on Monday night. I currently have no idea how anything panned out because it hasn't happened yet. At this point, all I can do is speculate based on how well we handled the LAST election. Ergo, I can only assume that by the time you're reading this, we've descended into tribal feudalism and are about to use your daily newspaper for torch kindling. Anything's possible in 2022. You could tell me that President Kanye just appointed Judge Reinhold to the Supreme Court and I'd go, "Yep, that tracks."

I'm guessing that whatever happened Tuesday, some people are now exceptionally happy, others are exceptionally mad, and ALL of us are probably sick of reading about it by now. Hence, I'm going to use this week's coveted bit of newsprint to focus on that which is good, that which is uplifting, and that which proves our society is worthy of redemption.

Obviously, I'm referring to last weekend's Rock & Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony, where the infamous annual all-star jam ascended to new levels of wonderful insanity. Folks, we live in a universe where there was an all-star group performance of "Jolene" featuring Dolly Parton, Pat Benatar, Duran Duran, Eurythmics, and Judas Priest. Playing together. At once. If that's not a sign of the Apocalypse, I dunno what is. But it's exactly the kind of mindless ridiculousness we all need right now.

I'm a card-carrying music geek, and if there's one thing that gets our types riled up, it's the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Every year when the shortlist of nominees is unveiled, Twitter explodes into pointless arguments. "So-And-So deserves to get in this year!" "Are you crazy? So-And-So is THE WORST BAND THAT'S EVER EXISTED IN THE HISTORY OF TIME, EVER!"

Then there's the invariable infighting over what exactly "rock & roll" even IS. The Rock Hall now includes R&B, country, pop, electronic, metal, and hip-hop artists, and some people can't cope with that. Eddie Trunk is a famous DJ, and you can guarantee tuning in annually to hear Eddie get offended anytime some rapper gets nominated for the Rock Hall while the unheralded genius of, I dunno, Don Dokken or Kip Winger once again gets overlooked. As much as I love to hate-listen to Eddie Trunk wax poetic about hair metal, he's got a point. But why argue about semantics?

The Rock Hall serves a purpose, and that purpose is mainly to let us geeks argue about it. I like that the Rock Hall lets in artists of all genres, because how else could we have cringe-worthy jams where the inductees are forced to awkwardly collaborate together in a ridiculous spectacle? The 2020 ceremony was cancelled because of the pandemic, and I still hold a grudge against COVID for costing us the chance to hear a nightmarish Depeche Mode / Doobie Brothers collaboration. I was personally hoping for "Your Own Personal Jesus Is Just Alright With Me."    

All-star jams weren't always appalling, though -- just ask 2004. That's the year the induction ceremony featured an all-star tribute to George Harrison. The idea was simple: get Tom Petty, Steve Winwood, and ELO's Jeff Lynne onstage to run through the Beatles' classic, "While My Guitar Gently Weeps." It was a solid yet perfunctory cover -- until halfway through, when out casually struts Prince, who then proceeds to spend the next three minutes burning the place to the ground with pure molten swagger.

Prince's guitar did not gently weep. It screamed in ecstasy. Jeff Lynne looked bewildered. Tom Petty looked downright scared. When I watch it to this day, I sometimes forget to breathe. It's THAT good. And as soon as Prince had appeased the gods of funk and melted everyone's faces clean off, he takes his guitar off and throws it haphazardly into the air. Go watch the tape. As God is my witness, YOU NEVER SEE THE GUITAR LAND. It's as if Prince threw the guitar clean up to heaven where Harrison himself caught it. Prince didn't even wait for the applause. He just cooly strolled offstage into the purple funk of night. It might be the most perfect musical moment ever captured on film. It will never be topped, but that doesn't stop the Rock Hall from trying every year.

I have no idea how this week's election turned out, but maybe the next generation will do a better job than we did. And if they don't, we can sleep soundly knowing that sometime in the distant future, they'll probably be forced to suffer through a future all-star jam wherein Harry Styles, Lil Wayne, and Slipknot will awkwardly cover "All You Need Is Love."

Then again, like I said, I have no idea what the future holds. It's only Monday. I'm presently sitting on a baker's dozen Powerball tickets. I could be a multi-billionaire by the time you people read this -- in which case, you won't have to worry about that Harry Styles/Lil Wayne/Slipknot collaboration. They'll be too busy performing it on my yacht instead.

COLUMN: Two Weddings and No Funerals

Wow, it's officially November. I feel like I blinked and missed most of autumn. Before we know it, pumpkin spice lattes and hoodies will make way for gingerbread and heavy winter coats. And just as fast as it began, the fall wedding season is already over.

As regular readers know, when I'm not playing with cats (or writing about playing with cats,) you can usually find me behind the DJ booth at area bars and nightclubs, doing my best to help the Quad Cities shake its collective booty. Ever since I went to my first party and realized my favorite seat was the one closest to the stereo, I've been that dorky DJ guy. It's a legacy I'm perfectly cool with.

While I like to spin records at bars and clubs and parties, I've never thrown my hat fully into the sexy and glamorous world of DJing weddings. This is probably dumb, because good wedding DJs can make a decent living. But let's be honest -- weddings are hard work, and DJing them can be a thankless, high-pressure job. Speakers are HEAVY. Brides are DEMANDING. I much prefer clubs where I can just stroll in with some tunes and if someone wants to hear a song that's dumb, I can tell them no.

But inevitably, at least once a year, someone I know will ask me to DJ their wedding. And I will say yes, because I'm a sucker. Last month, I DJed two weddings and that's probably plenty for 2022. If you're my friend and you've found your true love, do me a favor and wait a few months before you pop the question. I need to rest.

Wedding #1 was a friend and former co-worker who asked me ages ago to play some records at her reception. I hadn't soundtracked a wedding since the pandemic, so it sounded fun -- and it most definitely was. It was not, however, without its challenges. They're a Greek family, so vintage Greek folk music had to be procured on short notice. As it turns out, most vintage Greek folk music is NOT commercially available in the U.S., but I managed to track down every request through cunning, sleuthing, and more than one trip to some of the darker alleyways of the internet that are best left unmentioned (but if your name is Thanasis Papakonstantinou, I'm pretty sure I owe you 99 cents.) I also had to spend several hours swapping my usual unedited club playlists for more family-friendly fare that wouldn't send your great-aunt Edna running from the reception hall and writing you out of her will.

I also didn't realize the wedding would fall on the same weekend as a COVID-rescheduled concert in Chicago that I'd bought an over-priced ticket for back in 2019 before it was postponed. A responsible human being probably would have taken the loss and rain-checked the concert. I am NOT that responsible human being.

Instead, I drove to lakefront Chicago on a Friday night, whooped it up at the concert, got home at 3:45 a.m., and had to set up at the church just hours later. Not the wisest of decisions, but it all worked out in the end. The wedding was flawless, the family was wonderful, and if all Greek weddings have THAT kind of a food spread, I'll DJ any that come my way provided you throw a plate at me and NOT on the floor.

Wedding #2 was three weeks later and an event years in the making. Two of my closest friends finally took the plunge, and I couldn't have been happier to be a part of it. Come to think of it, I don't think I was ever asked to DJ the reception. They were just telling me about the layout of the reception venue one day, and simply said, "...and over in the other corner is where YOU'LL be." It might just be assumed at this point that if you're friends with me, I'll be providing the soundtrack to all of your major life events without question.

Secretly, I was a bit afraid of how it'd go. The bride is one of my closest friends from college, and her now-husband is the owner of my favorite record store. This meant that the demographic of the attendees were a 50/50 split between (a) some of my favorite people on Earth, and (b) the upper elite of hard-to-please Quad City music snobs (a club in which I am a proud member.) But thankfully their rules were simple ("if you play 'Celebration' or 'Hokey Pokey,' I will end you.") The night was a giant love-fest full of smiles, people I hadn't seen in ages, and ample amounts of 80s new wave jams.

In fact, it was SUCH a great night that it didn't even send me into the downward spiral of self-loathing and jealousy I was half-expecting. I mean, what's the point of attending a wedding if you can't make it all about YOURSELF and spend the night reflecting on your own poor life choices? "Welcome to the reception. Please dance to this festive classic, 'Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me' by The Smiths. Up next, it's The Cure's 'Disintegration' on repeat for 4 hours. Life has no meaning. They'll be cutting the cake soon. Mazel tov."  

This month has almost made me want to DJ more weddings. Heck, it's almost made me want to get married myself. To that point, an etiquette question for the nuptially-savvy among you: Is it in any way acceptable for one to DJ one's OWN reception? If so, I'm in -- provided there's any takers out there. Must love cats.