COLUMN: Vomit Infamy

Life as a mega-famous local columnist can often be grueling. I know I'm an incomprehensibly sexy and beloved public figure, but can I not get just ONE moment of peace and serenity in my glamorous life? Oh, what I wouldn't give to walk down the street without being chased by paparazzi, autograph hounds, and stalkers screaming their daily marriage proposals and devotions. I'm sure the mere sight of me must leave you normies in a state of awe and wonder, but I promise you that beneath all my celebrity pomp and elegance, I'm just a regular joe. Fame and adoration just come with the territory -- it's the burden of being me.

Orrrrrr maybe not. At best, I'm about as famous as that dog at the end of your block who barks too loud, and I'm pretty much okay with that. Based on the occasional interactions I've had with readers out in the wild, I'd make a lousy famous person.

Don't get me wrong, I love meeting readers. I still find it insanely weird that I even have readers, let alone ones that would ever want to meet me. I feel bad for those folks, though, because it's almost a certainty that I'm a huge let-down. In person, I'm not especially charming or witty. Unless you hand me a pen and paper and give me a half hour or so, I'm not full of comic hijinks. I'm terrible at small talk. If you've ever met me in person and I held eye contact with you for more than a second, take that as a win. I'm the whole package, provided the package you ordered is both awkward and off-putting.

But for a few minutes last week, I felt next-level famous.

I'd spent the afternoon running some annoying but necessary errands that I was in no mood for. Being good and responsible sucks -- so I decided to treat myself with a deliciously unhealthy dinner as a finale. It was there, in line at the fast food joint, that I spotted them. Or, rather, they spotted ME. A couple walked in, made eye contact with me, and immediately lit up.

"Wow," I thought to myself, "they must be fans of my column." Maybe I was just imagining it, so I looked back. Nope, they were definitely pointing and whispering and staring at me. These were big fans. We were on opposite ends of the line by this point, so I couldn't really communicate with them. Besides, Captain Awkward, what would you say if you could? "Yep, it's me. I'm him -- that guy who writes about cats too much. Great to meet you. Fancy an autograph? I have some 8x10's in the car!"

But it WAS kind of awkward, because they were definitely staring at me. I figured my best move was to make a subtle gesture of acknowledgement. I was aiming for some kind of head-nod / cheeky-grin combo that would clearly say, "Hey, I appreciate you reading my column and being a supporter. You're aces in my book." That's the gesture I was going for. I'm pretty sure the gesture I ended up making looked more like, "Hey, there are ants in my pants and for some reason I'm smiling about it. Watch out, I might follow you home!" 

When I looked back, both of them had phones in hand and were now clearly taking pictures of me. That's officially weird, right? Suddenly I became the most self-conscious person in the restaurant. How should I be standing? Do I have a dorky expression on my face? Please tell that my fly's buttoned.

It was mostly awkward, but maybe a little flattering? I'm pretty sure I floated home from the restaurant on an ego high. Am I camera-famous all of a sudden? IS THIS WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE TAYLOR SWIFT? Then I got home, took two paces into the house, stopped, and went, "Eww!"

There, on the second step to my upstairs loft, was a giant pile of vomit. Gross, but as a cat owner, it often comes with the territory. I did wonder, however, why it was so spread out and extra disgusting.

Every morning, I take a shower, get dressed, head into the living room, and put on shoes. How do I put on those shoes, you might ask? Why, by sitting on the second step to my upstairs loft, of course. And do you think on that morning that I paid close attention to that step? Nope. Was the vomit spread out and extra disgusting because I'd sat in it hours earlier? Perhaps. Was I wearing tan slacks and unknowingly wandering around with puke smeared all over my butt? Yep. Did I just run an entire afternoon of errands with what looked like poo hanging off my pants? Most definitely.

Was my fanclub at the restaurant taking pictures of Shane, their favorite newspaper columnist? Or were they taking pictures of some random fat guy grinning maniacally at them while wearing poo-pants? I have a feeling I know the answer. Frankly, I'm just glad I have ANY kind of feeling, because it's clear that I must have a numb butt to have not noticed sitting in a pile of puke.

I wonder what it's like to be famous. After this week, I don't think I want to know. Knowing my luck, if I ever achieve fame, it won't be from doing anything cool. I'm just praying it won't be from becoming Mr. Viral Poopy-Pants. Keep your fingers crossed and your browsers closed.

COLUMN: Caprese

I didn't want to have an existential crisis. I just wanted to watch TV. And now I need your help to find out if my entire grasp on reality is broken.

Stop what you're doing right now and think about a salad. Not just ANY salad. Think about that fancy Italian salad that's comprised of fresh mozzarella, tomatoes, and sweet basil. Do you know the salad I'm talking about? If so, say its name out loud right now.

I'm referring to a caprese salad. Hopefully you're familiar.

For 52 years, I've lived a relatively comfortable existence, fully and completely convinced that the word "caprese" was, is, and has always been pronounced "ka-PREE-zee." You know, like "breezy."

Tonight, I was in the kitchen doing dishes. As is often the case, the TV in my front room was blaring some rerun for background noise while I tidied up the joint after dinner. That's when an ad came on for Jimmy John's. Apparently they've got a new menu offering for the spring season: a "Caprese Salami Pesto Sandwich," which actually sounds pretty good, right?

Except one thing. When the announcer pronounced it, he called it a "ka-PRAY-ZAY" sandwich. Ka-PRAY-ZAY, with hard exaggerated American ayyyys. It was so weird, I walked straight out of the kitchen with wet, soapy hands. I rewound the DVR. I'd heard it correctly. "Ka-PRAY-ZAY." 

There's no way I've been running around for fifty-two years straight-up mispronouncing "caprese," is there? "Ka-PRAY-ZAY" sounds ridiculous, but who am I to question the vernacular validity of Jimmy John's? The mispronounciation of words has long been a hang-up of mine. I hate when other people do it, and I'm appalled when I do it. I think it goes back to elementary school, when I was addicted to reading Hardy Boys mysteries. Joe Hardy has a recurring girlfriend throughout those books. Her name is Iola.

I had never heard the name Iola, nor have I ever heard it since (probably because we don't live in 1927 when those characters were invented.) I still have no earthly idea how you're supposed to say the name Iola. Is it "eye-ola?" "ee-ola?" "yola?" Whenever she'd pop up in a story, I'd cringe and come full stop. I often wondered if even Joe Hardy knew how to say her name. "Say, fellas, you've met my girlfriend, right? Guys, this is... umm... Eye-hole-ay?"

It's one thing to struggle with pronounciation, but it's another thing to discover you've been blindly mispronouncing a word for years. After finishing up in the kitchen, I went straight to Google and searched "caprese" for the final verdict. Not only does it give you the Oxford dictionary pronounciation guide for the word, it also gives you a recording where you can listen to the correct pronounciation of the word. 

Immediately a voice came on and, with confidence, said "ka-PRAY-zee." It's... wait, WHAT? Google gave me a THIRD pronounciation of the word different from the way I've been saying caprese my whole life AND different than the Jimmy John's ad. According to Google, "caprese" should rhyme with crazy or lazy. I'm so confused.

I tried Googling "how to pronounce caprese" to see if I could find answers. Instead, Google pulled up a DIFFERENT pronounciation guide with a DIFFERENT recording, and THAT one said "ka-PRAY-ZAY" just like the Jimmy John's ad. So even Google's confused and offers two completely different pronounciations of "caprese," but NEITHER of them rhyme with "breezy," so I'm pretty sure I'm a moron.

There is, incidentally, a Youtube video entitled "How To Pronounce Caprese Correctly." In it, an Italian native instructs on the proper way to say "caprese," which involves rolling the "r" and doing that Italian trill thing where the "R" kinda sounds like an "L" and it ends up like "ka-PLLLAY-zay." But frankly, I don't trust any language where the word "bruschetta" is somehow pronounced "brew-sketta."  

I'm officially declaring caprese anarchy. I'm gonna keep saying it like "ka-preezy." Feel free to say it like "schnauzer" for all I care. Caprese salads don't exactly come up much in day-to-day conservation. If you're silly enough to pay good money for a hunk of cheese and a tomato and some basil and think you're getting an amazing salad, then you're silly enough to say "caprese" however you fancy. I'm just worried it's the tip of the iceberg and I'm about to find out the word "chair" should be pronouned "tz-ay-ruh" or something. 

So I guess pull up a tzayruh if you've ever been a member of the Mispronounciation Club. We'll be the ones in the corner -- and we need more dressing for our salads.

COLUMN: I'm Sick

I'm sick.

It's nothing bad, I hope. Pretty sure it's just a head cold. But it sucks regardless.

Having made it to post-pandemic life, it now seems rather poor taste to whine about something as mild as a cold. There's not going to be much sympathy for the common cold after we've spent three years trying to duck and cover from airborne cooties with the potential to send you to the hospital or worse. This is disappointing for someone like me, a well-trained and highly gifted whiner. I humbly request: (a) my mommy, (b) a bowl of chicken noodle soup, and (c) maybe a Planet of the Apes marathon.

Say what you will about masks, but for those two years when most of us were wearing them, I didn't catch so much as a sniffle. Since I stopped wearing mine on the daily, I've managed to contract COVID, the flu, and now this rotten cold. My body has essentially become a winter rental for vacationing viruses. I'm pretty sure my sinuses must be listed on Airbnb. I think I might miss masks.

You know what else I miss? The ability to call in sick to work. Once upon a time, if you felt lousy, you could call your boss and say, "I feel icky. I'm not coming in today." Your boss would then say something like, "That's a shame. Get some rest and feel better!"  Today, I called my boss and said, "I feel icky. I'm not coming in today." And my boss said something like, "That's a shame. Good thing you're still set up to work from home!" Note to self: research who invented the remote desktop and send them a harshly worded e-mail that perhaps questions the beauty, weight, and/or moral character of their mother.

I've now spent three days working from home, and it didn't take long to remember the pros and cons.

PRO: The break room here has much better snacks.

CON: I can't taste anything and all food sounds disgusting.

PRO: I have a proper desk in my basement office that's an ideal setup to work from home.

CON: Too bad I'm not using it. I've found I much prefer belly-flopping onto my living room couch where I am presently sprawled out in the least ergonomic manner possible. I am in full beached-whale mode.

PRO: That last one wasn't a con. Beached whale life kinda rules.

CON: Except for one thing. I'm used to sitting in front of two oversized monitors where I can have umpteen open documents allowing me to multi-task all the live-long day. When I work from home, I have a teeny tiny laptop that I have to squint to even see what I'm doing. I might have to buy a pair of cheaters on my next drug store run (and that, friends, is the most fuddy-duddy sentence I've ever uttered in my life.)

PRO: The office is sadly lacking in cats. As I type this, there's currently one asleep on my back.

CON: When I got up a few minutes ago to grab a soda, my cat decided to take a leisurely stroll across my keyboard, which in turn caused an e-mail to go out to my most important client which read, and I quote,  "fjjkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkbn".

PRO: I just had a productive 8-hour work day while unshowered, pants-free, and wearing a ratty t-shirt.

CON: I was so loopy from cold medicine that I forgot about our department-wide Zoom meeting, which left me five minutes to dive into a sweater, wet my hair down, and try my best to NOT look like a degenerate on camera. I don't think I fooled anyone.

PRO: Working from home can be relaxing and productive.

CON: But not when you have Kleenex shoved up both your nostrils and Vicks smeared on your chest. Even the cats are keeping their distance now.

All things considered, it's actually been pretty nice working from home this week. When lunch hour hits, I can just roll over and take a nap. I actually had an Amazon order overnighted to my home address without fear of porch larceny by the time I usually get home from work. And being able to work from home has kept me from focusing on how terrible I feel, which is what makes me whiny in the first place. 

I don't think I could do this full time, though. I miss human interaction and I've already started to go a little stir-crazy. Today, I caught myself holding a full and detailed conversation about work with my cats and asking their opinion on how I should best proceed. Their consensus opinion was "meow." Also keep in mind that I'm talking to cats through laryngitis AND a fully plugged nose, which makes me sound like a sad cartoon character on his last legs. Except I'm not even ON my last legs, because I'm sprawled out like a beached whale on the couch.

Hopefully, in a few days, I'll be back in fighting form, ready to rejoin society. Until then, it's Kleenex and Netflix and bedrest (err, couch-rest) for the foreseeable future. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some sneezing I've been meaning to get to.

COLUMN: e85

I did a really dumb thing. 

I've been debating all week whether to even write this column. Honestly, I was planning on sweeping this entire episode under the rug forever and telling this story to precisely no one ever. But if owning up to my stupidity can help even ONE person as clueless as me out there, it's worth the shame. Besides, none of you can make me feel any worse about this than I already do, trust me.

Remember last week when I wrote about my phone getting stolen? That wasn't the only major drama that went down that night. Earlier that same evening, the "check engine" light on my car's dash came on. Sadly, my car's starting to reach the age where occasional warning lights might not be uncommon. It was driving just fine, though, so I nursing it along over the weekend, hoping it was a simple sensor issue. I made a mid-week appointment to get it checked out.

It was a sensor, alrighto -- one that was trying to warn me that my car was being murdered.

I dropped the car off at my dealership around 8 a.m. and got the diagnosis a couple hours later: my car was full of bad gas. It had already done serious damage to my spark plugs. Their immediate recommendation was to drain the fuel tank, install a new set of spark plugs, and perform a full flush of the entire fuel system. The estimate was staggering. How could this have happened?

How could this have happened? On most Fridays, I get off work, go home and chill for a bit, then head out to my weekend side hustle, slinging records at dance clubs until the wee hours. But this past Friday, in-between Jobs 1&2, I opted to play on a team at a charity trivia night. I needed gas, so I left the trivia event with JUST enough time to swing through a gas station, drive home, get my DJ gear, and make it to the gig with minutes to spare.

It was shortly after I filled up the tank when the warning light first appeared on my dashboard.

I was in shock over my car getting poisoned by some gas station, but there was nothing I could do to prove it. I didn't have a receipt or anything, but I wanted to let them know about the problem, so I sent an e-mail to their corporate customer care center, and was surprised to get an immediate response. Within hours, I got a call from the district manager, who was super nice and went back and pulled up their security camera footage from that night.

"Pretty sure I found you on the tape," he said, confirming my car's model, color, and the shirt I was wearing. Then he said words I wasn't expecting: "Do you know what e85 gas is?"

Let the record state, I did not. Let the record also state that I sure do now.

e85 is a fuel blend of 85% ethanol and 15% gasoline. It burns cleaner, costs less, and is good for the environment. Unless, of course, the environment in question is the internal combustion engine of an older model Hyundai. It is considerably less good for THAT particular environment. e85 blend is only compatible with certain (newer) car models. Mine isn't one of them. My car was indeed poisoned, but it turned out the attempted murderer was ME.

Flabbergasted, I conducted a quick straw poll of my close friends. Based on their comments, it appears everyone on Earth has known about e85 gas for years and I've been living under a rock. As God is my witness, I had never heard of e85 until last weekend.

I'm fully aware that I can sometimes be ridiculous. I'm not exactly brimming with common sense. I can't swim. I have no earthly idea how to snap my fingers. I usually wear slip-ons because I'm lousy at tying my shoes. But seldom do I find myself ridiculously uninformed like this. I read the news every day. I drive around aimlessly and have visited hundreds of gas statioms over the years. How is this an entirely new thing to me?

Apparently e85 pump handles are yellow and say "FLEX FUEL," which is how I'm supposed to know I can't use it. I saw it and just thought "FLEX FUEL" was some cutesy name for their gas. Shell calls THEIR premium gas "V-Power" and I have no idea what that means, either, but it doesn't destroy my car when I pump it. I had no idea "Flex Fuel" was something you used to euthanize old cars in record time. 

I probably should just claim that I was in a hurry and not paying attention. That's still dumb, but its at least somehow better than thinking "flex fuel" was a silly name for gasoline and then pouring it into my car without a second's hesitation. I guess I'm just lucky I didn't elect to top it off with some diesel and a splash of antifreeze for color.  

So, yeah. I feel like a moron. But my mom didn't know what e85 was, either, so I'm not the only one. Maybe there's a handful of other people out there unfamiliar with the car-destroying yellow gas pump of doom. And maybe I just saved them from a similar fate. That doesn't make me any less of a moron, but at least perhaps it makes me a HEROIC moron, and I'll take what I can get this week.

Lesson learned. I just wish this particular lesson hadn't cost as much as a college credit hour.

COLUMN: Phone Stolen

I don't think I could ever pass myself off as an optimist. 

I'm a realist and I know the world isn't always sunshine and lollipops. That said, I've always stood firm in my belief that, by and large, humanity is good and kind and not a dumpster fire of nightmare people. But if there were ever a decade to disprove this theory, it might just be the 2020s. It was one month ago that I was whining in these very pages about having accidentally left my cell phone at home and struggling to survive without the warm, comforting embrace of 24/7 internet connectivity in my front pocket. I think I jinxed myself.

This past Friday night was spent in the same way mine usually are: in a DJ booth, playing records for people half my age -- people whose entire existence might very well have hinged on me having played records for their parents' hook-up decades ago. It's been my life-long hobby, and there's still few places on Earth I'd rather be than behind DJ decks staring down a packed dancefloor.

For a while that night, I was in the zone. I had a packed dancefloor, people were feeling my playlist, and it was one of those nights when songs were mixing like butter. "This crowd is awesome," I thought to myself. "I need to post a video!" 

That's when I reached for my phone and instead found myself pawing at an empty table.

My phone never leaves my side while I'm working. I usually keep it right beside the DJ controller, but it wasn't there. I checked all my pockets, checked under my coat, and looked all around. It was gone. More specifically, it had been stolen.

I should've been instantly mad. In all honesty, I was mostly just impressed. It wasn't like I'd left the phone somewhere far away. It was inches from my hand at any given moment, but it still somehow managed to grow legs and walk away. Whoever lifted that thing was good. This was a lesson learned: I needed to keep that thing in my pocket.

But I rapidly went from impressed to indignant, as soon as I saw an instant message from one of my friends pop up on my laptop. It reminded me that my laptop computer was connected to the internet, and I was hotspotting that internet signal from my cell phone. That message was proof my computer was still online, which meant my phone was still close enough to sync to my laptop. Someone on that packed dancefloor right in front of me was a phone thief. 

What could I have done? Cold stopped the music, grabbed the mic, and yelled "J'accuse!" into the open air? Stomped my foot and refused to play another song until someone ponied up the phone? There was no cool way to handle this scenario.

Instead, I stood there for another hour, fully aware that one of the people in front of me was a thief. Instead of focusing on the task at hand, I was instead trying to spot any tells or anyone giving off a guilty vibe. Eventually I glanced at my laptop and watched helplessly in real time as my wi-fi signal slowly dropped from five bars to zero as my phone was somewhere walking away from the club and into the night. 

I tried to keep the energy up for the remainder of my DJ set, but I was no longer in the zone. I was mostly just mad. The minute we closed, I was able to remotely lock and erase the phone, so congrats on your relatively worthless piece of hardware, friend. I changed all my important passwords and reported the phone stolen.    

Oh, and I almost forgot: I KNOW WHO YOU ARE. YOU'RE ON TAPE. I HAVE THE FOOTAGE. There's cameras all over that place, including directly over the DJ booth. I also don't think you planned on pilfering my phone. You were really nice when we spoke that night. But you were also pretty drunk, and I think you grabbed my phone by mistake. If that's what happened, just bring it back. Mistakes happen, especially when Funky Monkeys are involved.

If my phone's gone forever, I guess it's not a big deal. I had one payment left on that busted old phone and was planning on upgrading this month anyways. Enjoy my cracked screen and that broken button on the side. Maybe you can clear level 494 of Bricks & Balls, because I sure can't. Still, it'd sure be nice if you brought it back and proved me right that humanity is innately good. I'm not optimistic.

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.