The Sean Leary Show

Predictions For Super Bowl Weekend

2009-01-30T14:00:00.001-08:00

My predictions for this weekend:

* The Cardinals will win the Super Bowl 24-20, stunning everyone.

* Kurt Warner will win the MVP, after throwing for about 275 yards with two TDs (the third Arizona TD will come from a Tim Hightower run; and they'll get a field goal to run it up to 24 points.)

* The first words out of Kurt Warner's mouth after the mic is put in front of it post-game will be ....First off, I want to thank the Lord Jesus Christ.'' He may mix it up and say ....First off, I want to thank God.'' But I'm betting he'll go with Jesus.

* Most of the Super Bowl commercials will be lame, with the notable exception of two brilliant shills, one of which will be from a huge company like Taco Bell, the other of which will be from a much lesser-known company, probably some computer software outfit.

* Bruce Springsteen will play these four songs during halftime: ....The Rising,'' ....Glory Days,'' ....Born in the U.S.A.'' and ....Born To Run.'' He'll end his show with a rousing version of ....Born in the U.S.A. which will include a crapload of fireworks, confetti, people in red, white and blue and a sing-along with the chorus.

* All of the commentators talking about the game prior to kickoff will say, ....I know this is the Super Bowl, but this thing will have a hard time living up to the hype, pageantry, fireworks and kick-ass-ocity of yesterday's book signing by Sean Leary. He was at Barnes and Noble at NorthPark Mall in Davenport from 1 to 3 p.m. on Saturday, and he ROCKED THAT M-F'ER!!!!''

Find out for yourself if any of my predictions above are correct, starting on Saturday. Come on out to Barnes and Noble from 1 to 3 p.m., pick up a copy of my new book, MY LIFE AS A FREAK MAGNET: TRUE STORIES ABOUT WEIRDOS I'VE MET, or any of my other books, including EVERY NUMBER IS LUCKY TO SOMEONE, THE GIRL OF DREAMS AND MAGICK or EXORCISING GHOSTS, and then, as you're waiting for the Super Bowl to begin, enjoy reading any or all of them while eating some pizza and a giant plate of nachos.

Now THAT'S livin' my friends. THAT'S livin'.

Hope you all have a great weekend....

copyright 2009 Sean Leary / for more writing and other stuff you may or may not give a shit about, see www.seanleary.com

Rihanna: Afraid Of A Little Competition!

2009-01-29T08:15:00.001-08:00

At first I thought Rihanna was just a hypocrite.

Now I realize she's just terrified of a little competition.

In her new song ....Live Your Life,'' she starts with the usual hip-hop litany of bling porn, dropping her drawas over a list of material things, blah, blah, blah.

Then she gets into the Oprah portion of the song, the uplifting message that people need to ignore haters and just live their lives.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Very nice, very uplifting, very positive, good message.

However, when you listen to the lyrics, you get a different one.

First off, Rihanna tells people to ....stop chasin' paper and live your life.''

Okay, good advice. The pursuit of materialism is ultimately a hollow goal steeped in futility, particularly in times like these. And we all should just live our lives, not pay attention to haters, stop trying to keep up with the Jonesies, etc.

However, just a couple of lines later, Rihanna says, ....cause I'm a paper chaser, just livin' my life.''

Okay, Rihanna.

Stop sending us mixed messages here.

You're telling us not to chase paper. Just live our lives.

Then you tell us YOU'RE chasing paper WHILE living your life.

As if you're so great you have the ability to do both, while we peons don't?

Thanks for all the confidence, Rihanna.

But then again, maybe you're saying that because you don't have enough confidence in yourself?

Maybe you're saying that just to eliminate your competition for that paper?

Maybe you're telling people to stop chasing paper so that you'll have more paper to chase and less competition in chasing it?

I'm on to you Rihanna.

And I got my mind on my paper and my paper on my mind.

And I'm livin' my life.

Hey-ey ey ey ey ey...

copyright 2009 Sean Leary / for more writing, pleas for financial salvation through book sales and subterranean cries of existential desperation see www.seanleary.com

The Yeast Infection Girl Who Kidnapped Me

2009-01-16T08:08:00.001-08:00

Below is a story from my new book, MY LIFE AS A FREAK MAGNET, which I'll be signing from 1 to 3 p.m. tomorrow, aka Saturday, at Waldenbooks, SouthPark Mall, Moline, IL.

Hope you enjoy it, hope to see you at the signing, and hope you have a great weekend!

(The previous paragraph was brought to you by the word ....hope.'' Hope. It's not just for Barack Obama's campaign speeches anymore.)

As with all my stories, feel free to spam it out to your friends and share it with whoever you want. Just include my byline/copyright/etc. when you do.

And heeeeeeeeerrrrrreeeeesssssss......

THE YEAST INFECTION GIRL WHO KIDNAPPED ME

By Sean Leary

Ever notice those eHarmony commercials never feature anyone talking about their venereal diseases?

I guess they never got an application from Renee.

I met Renee (not her real name) in college. I was 21. When we were introduced by a mutual friend, we hit it off well. She seemed completely normal, stable, funny and cool. It's not like she was dressed head-to-toe vampire, or sporting several facial tics, or brandishing a swastika tattoo on her forehead. She looked like Elizabeth Shue in ....Cocktail.'' Girl next door type.

Little did I know her white picket fence cottage house was hiding a dungeon beneath it.

She offered to drive on our first date. Not typical for me, I'm used to driving, but it seemed like a refreshing change, so I went with it. When she picked me up, the first things she said to me when I got in the car were, ....You look great!'' and ....You know, you asking me out has made my entire year!''
Two huge compliments. Not bad. I'll take 'em. Things were going just fine with me up to that point.

....I want to take you to my favorite restaurant!'' she said, excitedly. In fact, pretty much everything she said during the first hour or so, she said with an incredible zeal.

Okay, sounds good.

So, we're driving and talking and driving and talking and I start to realize we're heading out of town. We're 20 minutes, half-hour out of town, and I ask, ....Where is this restaurant?''

....Oh, it's in Barrington.''

Barrington is over two hours away. It's in her hometown.

....Hmm. I hope it's a really good restaurant,'' I joke.

....Oh, it's awesome, and I really want you to like it!'' she says, in a way that made me think this was about more than me enjoying the appetizers. ....I really hope you do, because it's my favorite restaurant, and I want it to be yours too!''

....Well, it'll have a difficult time knocking off Burger King,'' I said, obviously joking.

Silence. Three, four, five seconds of silence. Accompanied by an oddly perturbed look on her face. And then...

she busted out laughing.

....Yeah, I think it'll be better than Burger King!'' she guffawed, awkwardly.

Okay, I'm fine with the adventure of going to a new place, and while it's more than a little unusual that she was taking me two hours out of the way to do it, that's cool, it's something different, and it'll give us time to talk. At that point I was just hoping that we would hit it off, and would have enough to talk about, otherwise the two hours would be deadly. But the delayed reaction on the joke, as well as the sort of vague anger about it, was starting to make me a little suspicious that the two hour drive – not to mention the two hour drive back, or the time spent there – could possibly become a bit strange.

The next thing she said, to break the uncomfortable silence, kinda confirmed my suspicions.

....Yeah, while we're there, I want you to meet my parents!'' she says.

Huh?

....Oh yeah, they'll love you!''

Hmm.

Then, silence, as though she realized she had just said something she probably shouldn't have, and changed the subject to working at the school newspaper. She was a fellow journalism student and she asked me what it was like to be an editor. Then we started talking about music. And movies. Pretty tame stuff.

Then, a few minutes later, she asks me to hand her her purse. I do. She shuffles through it, and, quite conspicuously, takes out her birth control pill and takes it right in front of me.

Then -- and this is the capper -- she says, ....Oh, I don't mean to be a tease. I mean, yeah, I'd love to have sex with you tonight, but I can't.''

And at that point, she LITERALLY starts scratching at her groin area.

....I've got this awful yeast infection!'' she says. ....And I'm sure you don't want to get that!''

She then laughs in a nervous, high pitched squeal and begins to talk, for a good 10-15 minutes, about her yeast infection. How it feels. How she hates yeast infections. How she gets them too often. Her theories on why she gets them. How she takes wears saran wrap bikinis filled with yogurt to try to get rid of them. And on. And on..

As I sit there, just sorta kicking back, taking it all in, wondering what's next.

Then she starts to tell me again how happy she is to be with me on this date.

....Yeah, I haven't really dated anyone since I broke up with my last boyfriend...''

Keep in mind this girl is a 19-year-old college student.

Her last boyfriend?

Her 42-year-old, MARRIED, band instructor.

The remainder of our trip to her hometown is spent with her dissecting that relationship. How it started. How it continued. Why she did it. How often they had sex. Where they had sex. Where they had to have sex because he was sneaking around and they were keeping it a secret. The time he gave her an STD and she found out he'd also been sleeping with third trombone or something, who had crabs. Good stuff.

Now, some of the time is also spent comparing me favorably to said band instructor. However, the bar is pretty low, so I don't feel all that accomplished to be stepping over it. Also, by this time, the ego stroking isn't even working. I'm just completely knocked aback by this girl's bizarre conversational choices and the way she expresses them.

We get to her hometown. Before going to the restaurant we stop at her house. Unbeknownst to her Mom and Dad, both of whom are dressed for bed. Dad in a sleeveless t-shirt and boxers, Mom in curlers and a housecoat. They're not particularly happy to see us, and her Mom tosses me a look that basically says, ....I'm so so sorry...''

Renee, on the other hand, is oblivious to this, giving me a tour of her home and showing me various pictures of her in various stages of growing up.

One such picture is of her around age 12 in a softball uniform.

....I think that was the summer I got my period,'' she says.

The More You Know...

We disengage from the parents house and go to her favorite restaurant, a Chinese place that wasn't half bad, but which was a rat hair from closing when she showed up. So the next hour is spent with the two of us – the only ones left in the place – eating as the employees vacuum and tidy around us trying to get her to take a hint.

Dinner conversation is about Renee's former relationships prior to the band instructor guy. The guy she lost her virginity to, who was also sleeping with her best friend. The guys who have cheated on her. The guy whose house she egged. The guy whose car she keyed. The guy who she intentionally gave an STD to again because he'd already given one to her, and how they both found it hilarious later on. Thank God for penicillin!

I think I get in a total of three or four minutes of convo.

And for any of you who know how chatty I am, you realize what an incredible aberration THAT is.

So, we wrap it up at the restaurant and start to head home. At this point, Renee thinks the date has gone fantastic. She's talking about our future together, and dropping hints about what we can do next, and talking about what we can do over the summer together, and how Barrington and my hometown of Joliet aren't really THAT far from each other (actually they're pretty far from one another), and by the time she gets around to talking again about her yeast infection I'm just trying to find my zen quiet place.

We pull into my driveway at the end of the night and she says, and I quote:

....Do you want me to come in? I mean, I know, I said we can't really have sex, but like, there are other things we can do.''

She looks in the driveway.

....Is that your car? If your roommates are up, we can go hang out in your car.''

At this point I wouldn't care if I'd just gotten back from a 10-year stint on a submarine with nothing but men. There's no way I'm encouraging Renee with any form of physical interaction. So, she goes in for a kiss and I shuffle over last minute and make it a hug.

Awkward.

....You don't want to kiss me?'' she says.

....Um, I think I'd like to take things slowly,'' I say. ....I get the feeling you're still kinda rebounding from your last boyfriend so maybe we should just be friends and see what happens.''

She starts to cry.

Just a reminder: This is a first date.

I'm horrible with the crying. I start to feel bad for people. As I've been told countless times, I'm too nice. I give her a hug. She pulls back, looks at me like she's going to go in for a kiss again, so I disengage and pull back since she's stopped crying.

....I'll give you a call!'' I say, getting out of the car.

....Okay,'' she says, I think, because I'm trying to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible.

I go inside, tell two of my roommates about the date. One of them says, ....Dude, she kidnapped you!''

....Hmm, I guess she did.''

....Did you notice any strange smells coming from the trunk?'' the other roommate adds. ....She might've had the body of the last guy she dated in there.''

Anyway, in the middle of me talking to my roommates, another roommate tells me I have a phone call.
It's Renee.

She blurts an apology for about 10 minutes. I accept the apology, but I don't agree to date her again.
That doesn't go over well, so she hungs up.

Nonetheless, for the next two weeks, she's relentless in trying to get me to go out with her again. I very politely continue to refuse. I'm busy. I think she's still hung up on the ex. I have to hop on a plane to Tibet to join the Peace Corps. Etc.

Then, for some reason, she suddenly changes tacks and starts telling people what a jerk I was. This goes on until she finds another guy. A fellow journalism student. Three weeks later, this guy comes to me and says, ....Uh, did Renee kinda stalk you or something? Because I can't get rid of her and I think she keyed my car.''

Suddenly I'm thankful I didn't make it to the third week. Apparently that's when she shifts into vandalism. I'm guessing week four or five involved the exchange of venereal diseases, if things got that far.

Shortly after that, the semester ended, Renee quit the newspaper and I never saw her again. Five years later I saw in our alumni newsletter that she had gotten married. Another five years later and she was a Mom of three. Maybe she settled down. Maybe her bizarre nature was just a phase for her, like ripped jeans or big hair. Or maybe she joined eHarmony and found that one special person whose turn-ons included talking about yeast infections.

I can just imagine the conversation.

....Yeah, I'm so glad eHarmony matched us up. I can't wait to take you to my favorite restaurant,'' she would say, starting to itch. ....Damn! I can't stand yeast infections!''

....Did you say yeast infections?'' he would ask, his eyes aglow, as he reached into his pocket to pull out a business card that said ....Roy Jones, Executive Vice President, Monistat Corporation...''

from the book MY LIFE AS A FREAK MAGNET by Sean Leary
copyright 2009 Sean Leary .. for more writing see www.seanleary.com

So, I Finally Got My Christmas Card From Julio Iglesias Today

2009-01-16T08:07:00.001-08:00

So, I finally got my Christmas card from Julio Iglesias today.

No kidding.

I don't know which is more amazing at this point. The fact that it took almost a month to deliver a Christmas card that was postmarked Dec. 15, or the fact that for the last decade I've been on Julio Iglesias' Christmas card list.

It all started in 1998. I know this because, jokingly, I have the initial hand-signed thank you letter from Mr. Iglesias taped up between a Lou Reed poster and a photo of ....psychic'' Miss Cleo on a wall at my office.

....Dear Sean,'' it reads,

....I want to take this opportunity to thank you for your favorable support of my latest album, ..Tango!' during 1997. It is due to such support that ..Tango!' has been nominated for a Grammy Award in the Best Latin Pop performance category being held in Radio City Music Hall on February 25, 1998...''

It's good that Julio acknowledged the critical weight my opinion holds with the Grammy voters. LOL.

Of course this entire thing was precipitated entirely on three things I did a decade ago, when I'd just started at this job -- one, I gave ....Tango'' a deserved good review; two, I gave Iglesias' concert a deserved good review when he played the local arena; and three, I killed one of his enemies for him in exchange for $5,000, a Hickory Farms cheese gift basket and a year's worth of Miracle Car Wash gift certificates.

That man? Tupac Shakur.

Okay, maybe it was just the first two.

At any rate, since then I've been on the Iglesias family Christmas list. Every year I get a card, and in recent years said card has featured a picture of his most recent brood of children, all of whom seem to be growing up quite quickly. Oh, how the time has flown for Miguel, Rodrigo, Julio, Miranda, Victoria and Christina.

I bring this up because it's an unusual thing you may find interesting or entertaining, and also because it illustrates something about celebrity.

I'm sure Julio Iglesias personally does not know if I get his Christmas cards or not. I'm certain that I'm part of a massive mailing out to entertainment and pop culture writers all across the planet, and pretty much everyone who has given him a favorable review or two in the past, and the few of us who have been hired assassins to dispatch his enemies, are put on the list.

But on the other hand, Julio Iglesias has to chip out the dough for these four color, high quality paper cards, not to mention all the postage. That's got to be a nice chunk of change.

I'm guessing, from my lack of regular holiday tidings from the rich and famous that I've applauded over the years, that there are very few celebrities that do this, or even would. So I've got to give Mr. Iglesias props on this one.

Before I opened my mail I was looking at the entertainment wire. It was filled with the usual morass of ugly, meaningless stories about Z-grade demi-celebs (WHY do people give a crap about Paris Hilton? What has she done other than grown from the zygote created from a mother who gave her looks and a father that gave her money?) that will be best forgotten in the years to come.

And then there's Julio Iglesias.

Say what you want to about the guy, but he's like Elvis to the Spanish-speaking countries of the world. In the U.S., or at least the white U.S., he's known as the ....To All The Girls I've Loved Before'' dude. But outside of our honkytown, the guy's a legend.

Yet he still has his assistants printing out and sending out holiday cards to hundreds of schmucks like me. Especially someone like me, who hasn't written about Julio Iglesias in probably the 10 years that have passed since that review, unless I've reviewed another CD of his in that ensuing time.

That attention to detail and that dedication to thanking the people who have helped him along the way -- in ways however slight -- is admirable.

It's not the kind of thing you're going to get from a Paris Hilton.

Which is why Mr. Iglesias has put her on his hit list.

And why I'm cleaning my glock and waiting for my Miracle Car Wash gift certificates, as a retainer.

copyright 2009 Sean Leary / for more writing see www.seanleary.com

Saying Something ``Rocks'' Doesn't Rock

2009-01-16T08:05:00.001-08:00

Okay, I think it's getting to be way beyond the time that we should all retire the phrase ....(blank) rocks.''

Sure, it can be kept around as an ironic comment, or as something that you might find on shirts worn by small children, who haven't beaten it into the ground. (For example, ....My Mom Rocks'' or ....My Dad Rocks'' or ....Elmo Rocks'' t-shirts.)

However, I'm sick of hearing it from adults in regard to everyone and everything, particularly when it seems lazy, disingenuous and obsequious, or when it's used as an advertising shill for something that, let's face it, really doesn't rock, never rocked and regardless of its merit, never will.

For example: ....This hemorrhoid cream ROCKS!''

I'm sorry, but as happy as you may be that your ass doesn't itch anymore, a hemorrhoid cream, by nature, should not be allowed to be described as ....rocking.''

C'mon, people, can't we find something more original to describe things? Can't we get beyond using ....rocks'' as a description with the slathering ubiquity of a lunch lady using mayonnaise?

Or at least can't we mix it up a bit?

How about saying that something ....rolls?''

As in ....rock 'n' roll.''

....Wow! This rolls!''

....You roll!''

....Damn! This hemorrhoid cream rolls!''

Hey, at least it's original.

copyright 2009 Sean Leary / for more writing and incredibly insightful commentary see www.seanleary.com

Through difficult times, one man's tenacity wins out

2008-12-31T11:11:00.001-08:00

There's a saying that you haven't really worked in the media until you've been fired. The business is notoriously fickle. A down ratings point here or there, a management shakeup (of which there are typically several), a shift in philosophy or a change in radio or TV station formats -- any number of factors can precipitate a pink slip.

However, the good ones, the tough ones, always make it through. They keep on finding work, never allowing their voices to be silenced.

No one can say Jim Albracht hasn't made it.

The thoughtful, outspoken, genial Albracht, 58, has traveled around the dial throughout the Midwest. He's seen it all. But he's still got his eyes wide open.

``As they say, it's been a long, strange trip,'' Albracht says, laughing. ``There are very few things I haven't done. But everything I have I've looked at as a challenge and an opportunity.''

He was all over the radio -- everywhere from WQUA to KFMH -- in the '70s; became a well-known sportscaster on WQAD-TV8 in the early-mid '80s; then returned to radio for a stint on WOC-AM1420 into the early '90s.

``Those were some great times,'' he said. ``Working at KFMH, I don't think I've ever had more fun at a job. And working as a sportscaster, I got to live out a lot of my dreams. Back then, if you worked hard enough, you could get anybody -- if you wanted to interview Stan Musial, you could. I got to talk to a lot of personal heroes, both at channel 8, and on WOC.''

Bounced from 'OC in '94, he landed on his feet -- and on-the-air -- in Green Bay and got to see the Packers win the Super Bowl.

``That's a perfect example of never knowing when something that seems like a down thing is going to turn into an opportunity,'' Albracht said. ``If I hadn't gone to Green Bay I never would've been there for that.''

He also never would've gotten to make a triumphant comeback. In 1998 he returned to WOC and began a decade-long stint as its morning show host.

However, a decade later, Nov. 30, 1997, he was let go again.

``I don't really have any hard feelings towards those guys, it was just a financial thing -- that's the way the economy was going, and still is,'' he said.

However, after a while, another media door opened -- albeit a part-time one. Since September, he's been sharing his perspectives at 6 and 10 p.m. Tuesdays and Thursdays and 5:30 and 10 p.m. Sundays on ``The Quad-Cities According To Jim,'' an op-ed running during the WQAD-TV8 newscasts. Albracht essentially gets to speak his mind on any subject he desires -- whether it's the presidential election, Britney Spears' latest breakdown or the basketball prospects for the Hawkeyes. It's an opportunity he relishes.

``I never say anything I don't believe, but I never believe I speak for everyone,'' he says. ``It can be serious, it can be funny, it's just life. The best case scenario is that I get people to think about an issue, to talk about it.''

Having endured the ups and downs of the business has only given the tenacious Albracht a richer perspective, he says, one that informs his work and helps him connect with the audience.

``Life has its ups and downs, and its changes in perspectives,'' he says. ``When I was 8, I thought `If I could just call one game, I'd be happy.' I've been fortunate to achieve a lot of what I set out to do.

``It's been a great life,'' he laughs. ``I just have to figure out what to do with the rest of it.''

Pausing, he acknowledged the difficulties he's endured, personal and professional. But he was quick to admit that often, the old adage about a window opening every time a door closes can be true -- and he's learned to watch the windows.

``I think one of the keys is being open to those opportunities when they arise,'' Albracht said. ``The other is following your passion. As long as you're doing that, no matter where you end up, you can be happy.''

copyright 2008 Sean Leary / for more writing see www.seanleary.com

Karli Rose Kell's name, legacy, lives on

2008-12-24T09:08:00.000-08:00

Yesterday marked the seventh Christmas.

The seventh time there were no gifts under the tree, no place at the table, no sounds of her laughter bubbling through the house like the sweet perfume of holiday cooking.

The latest December the Kell family, Ellis and Kristi, endured without their beloved daughter, Karli Rose.

``It's always tough,'' Mr. Kell said, taking a moment for a breath, his eyes welling up a bit. ``It starts to get tougher at the beginning of every fall. She was always such a Christmas type of person; she loved the holidays, everything about them.

``We miss her. You learn to live with it, but it never gets easy.''

Since Karli passed on Oct. 19, 2002, killed in a car crash near Andalusia, her parents have helped her memory live on -- not only for them, but for many others -- and created a legacy of charity in her name.

The Karli Rose Kell Scholarship fund has been going strong since its first Moondance charity concert event in 2003. Since then, it's provided money for dozens of aspiring area musicians, and each year it accepts scores of applications from students ages 8-18. (For more information on the program, e-mail Ellis Kell at ekell@rivermusicexperience.org.)

This year it's close to raising $10,000 for scholarships to go to needy area music students. Tonight, Ellis Kell and his band will perform at the Redstone room, hoping to raise enough funds to push them over the top of that $10,000 threshhold.

``We need $560 and we're there,'' Mr. Kell said. ``We started in July and it's just been amazing to behold the outpouring of support. Even in these tough economic times, when we know it's more difficult for people to find a little extra, people have been generous, and we truly appreciate it.

``It means a lot to us, in keeping Karli's memory alive, but it means so much to the students whose lives are impacted firsthand by it,'' Mr. Kell said. ``Being (at the RME) and seeing that, seeing the kids who are able to continue their music education because of it, is amazing.

``It's the best legacy I can think for her to have, in her name,'' Mr. Kell said. ``She loved music so much, it was such a huge part of her life. I think Karli would be thrilled. I'm sure she's looking down and smiling.''

copyright 2008 Sean Leary / for more writing see www.seanleary.com

Collins' Christmas Greetings Bring Spirit Of The Holiday Alive

2008-12-16T14:34:00.001-08:00

By now most of us have armies of holiday cards lined up in formation on mantles, refrigerators and desks.

Some of them offer brief salutations, others deep holiday wishes, and still more lengthy recaps of the senders' lives since last Christmas. Some were dashed off out of obligation, some were meticulously crafted outbursts of feeling. Most were probably sent from a place somewhere in-between.

But all of them were the result of an effort, however minute.

They offer a connection, brief and ephemeral, to the lives of loved ones. A lifeline to the milestones of their lives.

It's been almost 20 years since the friends of Richard Collins were recipients of his own unique annual holiday correspondence.

However, 16 Christmases after the 30-year veteran teacher and coach in the Moline school system passed from prostate cancer in January 1992, that connection has been re-established.

Earlier this fall, the Midwest Writing Center released “Greater Joy, Shorter Sorrow, Thankful Prayer,” a collection of Christmas poems Collins sent to friends from 1965 to 1990. Most of the poems are recaps of the year, some of them are odes to the season, all of them have a warm personality and a certain resonance.

Books are $11 and can be ordered by contacting the Midwest Writing Center or on Amazon.com. Proceeds are shared by the Midwest Writing Center and the Richard J. Collins’ Scholarship Fund. You can find out more at http://www.midwestwritingcenter.org.

I wrote about the book in October, back when it was first published. However, three events brought me back to revisit it. One was the proximity to the holiday. Another was recently seeing Collins' widow, Susan, and son, Ryan at a Midwest Writing Center event, And the third was some time spent cleaning out old files and tossing ancient Christmas cards.

Postcards from the past. Time machines. Some worth a laugh, some worth a smile.

The same could be said of Collins' poems.

Most of them are frozen moments, warm sentiments without pretention. However, now they're reminders, comforts for loved ones, all because he took the effort to bring them to life.

``The book being released brought mixed feelings for me,'' Susan said. ``The neatest part about it is Ryan being introduced to his father's work. He knew his Dad wrote poetry but he hadn't read a lot of his poems. It was a great opportunity for him.

``It brings back memories for me, it makes me nostalgic,'' Susan said, wistfully. ``I'm glad other people have the opportunity to go through and read them. ''

It's almost a certainty that when Richard Collins wrote them, he had no idea that almost 20 years on, they would still be impacting people's lives. That people he had never met would be discovering them.

There's something very appropriate in that, given the season's giving nature. And aside from the obvious subject matter, there's something about Collins' book that really brings the spirit of the holidays alive.

You may read this and decide to pick up a copy of Collins' book for yourself. You may see it in a bookstore and check it out, flip through it, read a few of the poems. And in them, you may see a mirror of your own life. Of the cards you've gotten. Of the sentiments within. Of the connections being made, however small, with the people who have made up the fabric of your life.

And all of them beginning with an effort, a step being made, a connection forged.

When he reached out to create them, Richard Collins' missives were thought to be little more than temporary amusements.

Now they're a legacy, a tie that binds.

Little do we know how the efforts we'll make this holiday season will be received. The impact they'll have. But, however tiny, as with Richard Collins, the possibility for a deeper resonance, completely unbeknownst to us, is always there. Our actions, however insignificant we deem them, have the potential for a greater impact, now or somewhere down the line.

What will your impact be?

Have a safe and merry Christmas.

copyright 2008 Sean Leary / for more writing see www.seanleary.com

Sadly, the lights are down this Christmas season for iconic home

2008-12-10T15:04:00.000-08:00

For 25 years, residents of Clark Hall's Moline neighborhood could always count on him lighting up their lives.

From snowmen to Santas, from colored bulbs to candy canes, the former Dispatch Griswold Award Winner's yard was a frenzy of copious and festive holiday adornments.

``People used to come from all over the Quad-Cities, and even outside the area, to see it,'' his wife, Gloria, said Wednesday of the home at 921 12th Ave. ``People really enjoyed it.

``You could certainly see it -- it was hard to miss,'' she said, with a chuckle. ``Our oldest son used to read books in the front yard by the lights.''

This year, however, the yard is icy and dark. The skeins of luminaries and myriad decorations remain indoors, stuffed in dusty boxes. Periodically, cars will drive by the house slowly, hoping to catch a bit of past Christmas magic, but they speed away disappointed, with only their headlights breaking the night.

This year, Mr. Hall has retired, he says. He won't be decorating his house any more.

``I'm not able to do it, due to my health,'' he said, voice cracking, before yielding the phone to his wife to finish our interview.

Mr. Hall is epileptic, and in the past few years it's gotten worse, to the point where now, he can't climb the ladders, can't use the equipment necessary, she explains.

``It's sad,'' she said. ``We're both sad about it. But it's a decision that had to be made.''

There were close calls in the past. A crushed foot in 1993 put Clark out of work for nine months, but his sons -- teenagers at the time -- and their friends pitched in to decorate the house come Christmas time.

The Halls' sons had also pitched in to help in recent years, as it became more difficult for Clark. But with the oldest, Jim, 34, living in St. Paul, Minn., and their youngest, Tom, 32, having to work 12-hour days and take care of his own family, time has been stretched too far, Mrs. Hall said.

``It's time,'' she said.

The tradition began a quarter-century ago, in 1982, after Clark's mother, Maxine, passed away.

``She loved Christmas lights. She used to go out every year and they would drive around and see all the lights,'' Mrs. Hall said. ``He started decorating the house in honor of her. It was a way of keeping her memory alive, of doing something she would've enjoyed seeing.''

The decorating began soon after Halloween, and over the years, the display became all the more elaborate. The two-story home had a landscaped front with a fence equipped with electrical outlets to accommodate a spaghetti pile of extension cords used for the lighting display. Several trees, a small bridge and a man-made pond in the back yard were lit.

The east side of the property was decorated with a trio of Santa's helpers' houses. A Santa climbed up a ladder to a second-story window. A church with carolers and a Nativity display ornamented the home's front. Lights of red, green, orange, white and blue blanketed the house and the shrubbery, along with several candy canes, reindeer, angels and assorted animals. Tons of white lights streamed along the roof alongside a wooden Santa and sleigh. In all, 25 plastic figures and 70 wood figurines, hand-crafted by Mr. Hall, populated the home and yard.

``It really was a sight to see,'' Mrs. Hall said. ``It was pretty amazing.''

The Halls are keeping much of the holiday memorabilia, an array nearly as populous as the number of memories they hold from the past 25 winters.

Reminiscences shared by others as well.

``I can't believe it,'' Mrs. Hall said in a phone call late Wednesday. ``We checked the mail today and Clark's starting to get `Thank You' notes from people, thanking him for decorating the house all these years.

``It's nice,'' she said, the joy obvious in her voice. ``It's sad it has to end, but it's good for him to know he's had an impact on people's lives. It's a nice thing to come out of it. To know that people cared enough to say thank you.''

copyright 2008 Sean Leary / for more writing see www.seanleary.com

Why Isn't There An Indie Film Theater In The Quad-Cities?

2008-12-09T09:39:00.000-08:00

I'm starting to hear a familiar question again.

``Why doesn't the Quad-Cities have a theater that shows independent movies?''

Why not?

At one point, I used to get this question all the time. And at that point I had a different answer. That point was in the mid-late '90s and early '00s. After the massive success of indie films like ``sex lies and videotape,'' ``Clerks'' and especially ``Pulp Fiction,'' film fans began to hunger for more indie fare. Local movie aficionados were no exception.

At best, the big mainstream theaters at the time -- Showcase Davenport and Milan and the Moline Super Savers Cinema -- would screen indies for a week, or sometimes even just a couple of days, and then they'd disappear. Ergo, during that time, a lot of people seemed to be craving a theater devoted specifically to indies.

I wrote several columns that reflected that, pushing for someone to take a chance and open up a theater devoted to off-the-beaten-path films. For a while, I was even considering doing it myself, putting out subtle feelers to The District and my banker, with a plan to re-open the Rocket Cinema in downtown Rock Island, re-name it the Verona, and use it as a multi-purpose venue for indie films, bands and theater.

However, around that same time, a friend of mine, unbeknownst to either of us, decided to do the same thing.

In 2002, Devin Hansen opened up the Brew and View, an excellent venue devoted to independent films and the occasional concert. In 2005, he expanded by re-opening the Rocket. So, for what would turn out to be a very brief time, the Quad-Cities had two indie film venues in recent years.

Devin's venues were well run, accomodating and featured a fantastic string of films. He went about things the right way.

And both theaters went belly up by the end of 2005.

The reason, ultimately?

A lack of support.

What would happen is that some films would draw huge -- Michael Moore's ``Fahrenheit 9/11'' was one of the biggest -- and that financial bonanza would give the theater some breathing room during the much leaner times. And there were some very lean times during the runs of certain films. There were several instances where I went to see a movie there and I was one of a handful of people in the theater. One time, the only two people in the theater were me and a reviewer for another local newspaper.

As the stretches between theater-saving hits grew longer, the odds of either theater surviving did as well, until, finally, Devin had to close their doors. As much as people seemed interested and enthusiastic about the idea, the market didn't financially support it.

Have things changed in three years? Have they changed enough to where someone else could make it work?

I doubt it.

Yes, the market has changed and loosened up a bit. For example, there are more indie theater groups surviving where before it was a tougher go. But 2005 wasn't that long ago. The market probably hasn't changed all that much in that little time.

In addition, the economy has zipped downhill rapidly. People don't have as much disposable income. Things seem to be getting worse. Every day is filled with more bad news.
With most people's finances in tatters, now is not the time to start a business that failed not too long ago.

The best chance of anything similiar working would be if the current occupants of the old Brew and View, Derek Bertelsen and Tyson Danner's Green Room Theater, decided to devote a couple nights a week to screening indie flicks, in between live theater shows. Something on that smaller scale, in a venue that's got a built-in audience sympathetic to films of that sort, might work. Might.

However, anything larger is probably doomed at this point.

I hate to be pessimistic, because I'd like to see it happen. I'd like to see someone open an indie theater and succeed. I've been a staunch supporter of that idea for more than a decade.

However, given the circumstances, I don't see it happening.

That's the answer I have to give people now.

That's not the answer I gave then.

It's sad to see that change.

But I'd like to be proven wrong.

copyright 2008 Sean Leary / for more writing see www.seanleary.com

Film Series Brings INTERNATIONAL Flavor To Geneseo

2008-12-02T14:59:00.000-08:00

I don't know about you, but when I think about hotbeds for foreign film, Geneseo is the first city that comes to mind.

No?

Well, maybe that'll change.

Especially if Margaret Behr has her way.

Behr, who moved to the Quad-Cities area from St. Louis four years ago, is the driving force behind Geneseo's new Foreign Film Series taking place the first Thursday of every month (except January, which lands on New Year's Day) at the Central Theatre, 111 N. State St. Flicks begin at 6:15 p.m., although Behr admits there's a little wiggle room for latecomers.

With the future of the Open Cities Film Society in shadow, and few other regular options for fans of the exotic, Behr's series offers a breeze of fresh air. One that she's more than happy to breathe in deeply.

``When I moved here I noticed there wasn't anything like this,'' Behr said. ``I used to love going to see foreign films in St. Louis, and they had a lot of places where you could see them, old and new. So I thought, how can I do something like this here?''

Behr approached the community center to sponsor the event, and they acquiesced. Geneseo Art League has also expressed interest in coming aboard as a sponsor.

The event started off in October to modest crowds, but has picked up as word-of-mouth has gotten out.

``We're hoping that every month it picks up more momentum,'' Behr said. ``Hopefully this becomes a regular thing, and we're able to show even more films on a regular basis.''

However, Behr is quick to add that people should leave their preconceptions about foreign films behind them. These aren't just depressing exercises in nihilism and boredom where unbathed, little shaven French waifs bemoan their lives in-between vicious shags and close ups of decaying road kill.

``I wanted to show films that are family-friendly for the most part, films I liked and that I thought other people would enjoy,'' Behr said, unfortunately disappointing those of us who can't get enough of films featuring hairy, unbathed, vicious shaggers and metaphorical close-ups of road kill. ``The films are more character driven. There's a perception that foreign films are much darker and more sexually explicit, and that may be true with some foreign films, but not the ones we're screening. These are really good, really fun movies. A lot of them have been nominated for Oscars and all of them are critically-acclaimed.''

You can see that in the upcoming slate, including tonight's flick, ``Beauty and the Beast,'' a fantastic fantasy film. On Feb. 5 the funny, clever, Oscar-winning romantic comedy ``Amelie'' will be shown. On March 5, it's another Oscar winner, the vibrant, thought-provoking ``La Vie En Rose.'''

``They're all excellent films that I think would be enjoyed by a wide variety of people,'' Behr said. ``There's no excessive violence or sex or anything that would potentially turn people off.''

The films are screened with subtitles. So don't worry about having to brush up on your high school French or Spanish. Or Russian or Japanese for that matter. However, keep the Pig Latin book close by, just in case she decides to bust out a film tribute to Bobby Brady. You never know.

``If we can get it started, maybe it'll keep going on a regular basis,'' Behr said. ``There is some interest. I think people just don't know what to make of it yet.''

What should they make of it?

``I just think it's a fun, upbeat, progressive thing for Geneseo,'' Behr said. ``I think there are a lot of people who think it's just old-fashioned out here, but it's a great community to live in, and I hope this adds to that.''

Oui, oui.

copyright 2008 Sean Leary / for more writing see www.seanleary.com

Shocking Facts About Quad-Cities Rock Band Revealed!!!!

2008-11-25T08:57:00.000-08:00

Boy, you think you know someone, or someones, and then you realize they've been total strangers all along.

For more than a decade, I've been familiar with the local rock band Spatterdash, who you can see perform Friday night at The Uptown Neighborhood Bar & Grill 2340 Spruce Hills Drive, Bettendorf, and Saturday night at The Missipi Brewing Company, 107 Iowa Ave.,Muscatine.

I've written about them. I've played their songs on my radio shows. I've even included one of their tunes, ``Road Trip,'' on a movie I wrote/directed/produced, ``Your Favorite Band.''

But as I recently discovered, after a hard-hitting investigative report, and an extremely revealing interview with their lead guitarist, Leo Kelly, I, and, let's face it, the world, has been in the dark in regard to the REAL band.

The following is but a sampling of some of the incredible facts I uncovered about the group -- Kelly, singer Chris Sindt, bassist and keyboardist Matt Hauser and drummer Sean Dorton.

Prepare to be shocked. VERY shocked.

* While songwriting, Kelly and Sindt often collaborate on lyrics and chord structure while in an underground hyperbolic chamber -- a deserted remnant of the Cold War.

* Their lyrics have been memorialized on motorcycles, water towers and inconvenient tattoos.

* Sindt is often mistaken for Val Kilmer, Hauser bears a likeness to Jerry Seinfeld and Kelly often takes to the stage and hears shouts of "HORSHACK!"

* Dorton teaches drums and interpretive dance in Muscatine.

* Dorton is also a personal trainer and briefly was strength and conditioning coach for Rosie O'Donnell.

* Sindt has been voted "Best Rock Vocalist" in local polls and also holds the distinction of being voted BEST PARACHUTE PANTS in his High School Year Book!

* If you listen closely to the band's second CD, ``Truth Serum,'' you discover a subtext devoted to sub-atomic-super-colliders, the search for truth in the universe and a tribute to Shaun Cassidy.

* Spatterdash has been at work on their third album since 2000. Their lyrics will center around a rebuttal to Axl Rose's ``Chinese Democracy,'' so you really can't blame Spatterdash for the delay.

* Dorton once ate two foot-long subs in one sitting.

* Kelly and Sindt met in the early '90s and through their shared passion for Van Halen, KISS and Native American Studies formed a tight bond that continues and provides the Quad-Cities with the rock it so richly deserves.

* Original members Mark Stanley and Randy Archer were high school buddies. Matt, Leo, Sean and Chris attended High School as well.

* Kelly also plays guitar in Wicked Liz & the Bellyswirls, Wayne Fontana & The Mindbenders and Superfly Samurai. Despite numerous rumors to the contrary, he has never been in Natty Scratch, Oasis, Wild Cherry or the touring company of ``Cats.''

* No members of Spatterdash have been voted "Sexiest Man of the Year" or inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, thus they doubt the validity of either.

* Kelly is also a celebrated cartoonist. You can see some of his work as theleokelly.com. He also asks the question, ``Can you claim to be a `celebrated cartoonist' if your "celebration" entails drinking a 12-pack in your garage after doodling on napkins?''

* Since the late '90s Sindt has spoken at corporate events as a motivational speaker. He also wrestled for a short time as The Ultimate Warrior Jr.

* Bassist Matt Hauser receives his pay in blueberry muffins.

* Hauser would like to be mentioned once more. He notes, ``bassists are traditionally over-looked.''

You can find out more fascinating facts and stay up-to-date with the band at http://www.myspace.com/spatterdash.

copyright 2008 Sean Leary / for more writing see www.seanleary.com

In an era of revelation, area art exhibits maintain an air of mystery

2008-11-18T12:15:00.000-08:00

We live in a world where you can find out almost any detail at the blur of your fingertips. The Internet gives us access to an astounding amount of information, and these days, everyone is all too willing to tell all.

Celebrity culture is dissected and fetishized to the point where we know more about the famous than we do about our family.

People's MySpaces and Facebooks and YouTubes and other blogs are often shockingly candid, sometimes to the point of incriminating stupidity.

And almost any creative endeavor, trend or artist of any reknown has had his or her work pored over in blogs, books, Behind the Musics and other media.

That's why it's refreshing to have some mystery in the world. Something that actually leaves you guessing, that allows some open spaces for you to fill with your imagination.

Such is the case with most art.

I was thinking about this recently, as I was looking at any exhibit by a quartet of my favorite local artists. The show, Exchange, features multimedia paintings by Terry Rathje, Jeff Tady, Heidi Hernandez and Steve Banks. It's a brilliant collection, which you can see through Nov. 25 at Quad City Arts, 1715 2nd Ave., The District, Rock Island.

The cool ``gimmick'' about the show is that each of the artists only worked on 30-50 percent of the canvases before handing them off to the other artists for completion. The results are a terrific meeting of the minds; works that roar colorfully through the cultural landscape with a great sense of humor and fun.

However, a lot of the fun is in the amusement and imagination the works provoke. Many of them are overtly ``interactive,'' allowing viewers to ``play along'' with the pieces. But even more important is the fact that, like all innovative art, in the best way, all of them are interactive. They provoke thoughts, they elicit feelings, they amaze you, they amuse you.

And in doing so, they build a bridge between you and the artists. One that is entirely in your head.

The meaning of one piece may be different to every person who looks at it. And that's the great thing about art, that it doesn't just represent the creative spirit of the person who brought it to life, but it reflects the imagination of the person viewing it as well.

For this column, I had thought about doing an interview with the assembled artists and asking them about their works, their process and the exhibit.

But instead, I decided against it. Instead, I'll just highly recommend you go to see this excellent show while you can, and I'll let you have fun with it and come to your own conclusions. Not just at this show, but at the countless others you can encounter at local galleries.

Sure, I could've exposed the artists' thoughts, or interjected my own opinions and interpretations into this piece, but I'd rather refrain. It's all yours. Have fun.

It's nice to know there remains the potential for some mystery in the world.

And it's cool you can build your own at any art gallery.

copyright 2008 Sean Leary / for more writing see www.seanleary.com

Poetry Is Found In Unique Places

2008-11-11T15:57:00.000-08:00

In my job, I see a panoply of human experience.

However, the greatest part of it is seeing the dreams of a creative mind become reality.

In ways sorrowful and sweet.

One day, I was talking with Susan Collins about the Midwest Writing Center publishing a warm, inviting collection of her late husband, Richard's, poetry, ``"Greater Joy, Shorter Sorrow, Thankful Prayer."

Another day, I was visiting with a group of bartenders bringing a new club, Icons, to life in the Rock Island District.

An unusual dichotomy. An unlikely pair. But each capturing a certain energy, a distinct vitality, a spark to be admired.

Richard Collins' book is an intensely personal item. Much of it is poems written as Christmas card enclosures he did from 1965 until the Christmas before he died, of prostate cancer, at the age of 56, in 1992. The poetry is heartfelt, humorous, earthy and obviously cherished.

``It's a labor of love,'' Susan said, having to pause several times during our conversation as tears welled in her eyes. ``I'm happy to have the chance to share it with others, and I think Richard would be too.''

Proceeds from the book, which was launched Oct. 18, will be shared by the MWC and the Richard J. Collins' Scholarship Fund. The book is available at the Midwest Writing Center, at Amazon.com or the MWC online store at http://www.midwestwritingcenter.org/Store.htm.

Sixteen years after his passing, Collins' legacy continues. In a way he probably never envisioned as he crafted each poem, year after year, out of the sheer joy of writing, the need to connect to others, to enrich their lives in an artistic manner.

Small things. Writ large in time.

In a way, the same could be said of the work of Dave Phillips and Phil Woodward, the co-owners of Icons.

Watching them and their staff interact during a conversation about the new venue was like seeing the cast of ``Ocean's Eleven'' jab and chatter at each other. It was hilarious and revealing, a film scene brought to life, in a venue modeled after singular movie moments. A symphony of slang and banter, using the same colorful currency of a poet.

``We're all friends, we've all known each other for so long, and I think that spirit of fun will be obvious to people who visit Icons,'' Phillips said. ``And we really want people to have fun. I can't say that enough. Really, it sounds corny to say this, but this is a dream come true. It seems like it's not that big of a deal, but when people come in here they want to forget their troubles. It really is kind of an important thing if you think about it.''

It may seem to be an odd mix. Bar owners. A poet and his wife. But they share several key traits.

Pride. Imagination. Joy. A celebration of life, of love, of communication, of connection.

Satisfaction in the culmination of a job well done.

Happiness in their dreams being realized.

Pride in knowing that they've brought something into this world that wasn't there before, and hope that it will enrich it for its presence.

They are a disparate mix.

However, together, along with the rest of the eclectic visionaries, the risk-takers on the area arts and culture scene, they make our community a better place.

A living poem in progress.

Small things. Writ large in time.

copyright 2008 Sean Leary / for more writing see www.seanleary.com

Gandhi's Fart Jokes? Adam Sandler? What Should I Call This?

2008-11-03T15:51:00.000-08:00

The following story is going to be included in my upcoming book, MY LIFE AS A FREAK MAGNET.

The problem? I can't make up my mind as to what the title should be.

I'm torn between three titles:

* Cleveland Rooowacks

* The United Nations of Adam Sandler

* Gandhi's Fart Jokes

anyway, below is the story. Read it, hopefully find it amusing or interesting, and then weigh in on what you think the title should be.

Thanks!

(UNTITLED)

By Sean Leary

Call me a psychic, call me a genius, but I knew something was awry when I saw the two-year-old, clad only in a diaper, scampering across the gravel two-fisting a full beer can.

It was a tall boy.

The beer, I mean, not the child. The child actually looked malnourished. But despite that handicap, he seemed quite adept at delivering a cold brewski to his shirtless, sunburned Dad.

Around that certain time, right about the moment that grubby diapered infant teethed on the cold condensation dripping down the word ....Schlitz,'' I had a revelation.

People like this had always seemed to find me, I thought. Situations like this always seemed to surround me.

And it was then, at the ripe old age of nine, as I found myself in the middle of a good, old-fashioned hillbilly brawl, at the amputated stump of a dead-end street flushed into a highway, that I cracked open the figurative bottle of Mad Dog and guzzled down the truth.

I, Sean Leary, was a freak magnet.

People often ask me if my oddball-drawing powers are a recent thing, as though my career as a newspaper reporter is what has put me into the vicinity of so many oblong personalities.

Nope.

True, I've met more than a few due to my job as a writer. But my experiences trace back to my childhood. There was nothing to be done about it. I could either grab a board and ride the waves, or I could drown. I opted for the former, adopting a distance that would serve me well over the years.

However, I couldn't help being pulled into the stories from time to time. Including this one, which, in its strange way, Bono, Jerry Springer, Gandhi and Adam Sandler all would've loved.

It started when our babysitter, Diane, a skinny 16-year-old with fuzzy brown hair, square eyeglasses and baloney-colored cheeks, decided to go outside to smoke pot and drink schnapps with her boyfriend. One toke led to another and within a half an hour, I, as the oldest of four kids, was being bribed to take over her duties for an hour or two.

My mother wouldn't be home for another three or four hours, so Diane would have enough time to get back with enough candy to glue our mouths shut prior to my Mom's arrival.

....Just don't go outside though,'' she said, as she adjusted the strap of her Aerosmith tank top, ....stay in!''

Yeah, right.

It was early after noon, late July. Our apartment didn't have central air.

Stay inside?

Sure. That was gonna happen.

Within minutes of Diane and her boyfriend screeching out in his orange Camaro, we -- I, my sister Tara, 9, brother Craig, 7, and sister Heather, 6 (I use their real names because it's pretty easy to find out the names of my siblings) -- rifled down the stairs and through the front door to play with the other kids in the neighborhood, who were busy crashing across the cracked street, gravel driveways and patchy yellow-and-green lawns with precious abandon.

The first kid we saw was Tracy (not her real name), an eight-year-old who was lifting her flimsy sun dress up around her bone-skinny torso to fan herself, exposing her Strawberry Shortcake underwear to all, including the drunken old men on the stoop next door, who leered disturbingly.

Tracy, like the four of us and many kids in the neighborhood, had a single mother who worked late hours to pay the bills, leaving us home in the ....care'' of the teens of the neighborhood who fancied themselves babysitters, or who at least pretended to act like them in front of the adults.

It may seem like a DCFS-worthy situation now, but back then we didn't mind at all. We did just fine. Nobody got hurt or killed or abducted. Our mothers were a phone call away, and it taught us to rely on ourselves.

Besides, someone needed to pay the bills, and the cash from my paper route just wasn't gonna cut it.

However, getting up at dawn to chuck Chicago Tribunes onto lawns did do just fine in providing me with pocket change for candy, food and comic books. All of which I quickly planned to procure with Diane out of the way.

Knowing I was on a limited time frame, and my destinations were a good distance away, I'd already taken the liberty of prepping once I figured Diane was going to bail on us. That included readying a thermos filled with egg nog.

Yes, egg nog.

When I was a kid, I loved egg nog. To the point where I searched through one of my Mom's cook books to find a recipe so I could drink it during spring and summer, when it otherwise wasn't available in stores.

Truth be told, my egg nog was probably pretty terrible. It was predominantly sugar and milk, with a few eggs and some vanilla extract and cinnamon cracked in for color. My siblings, who refused to imbibe, found it to be a disgusting, slimy mess, but as long as it had the sugar and milk, mostly the sugar, it was fine with me.

And today, on a day that was stiflingly hot, it seemed like the perfect refresher during a long bike trip to...

....Zantigos!''

....Where do you think you're going?'' my sister Tara asked again, incredulous and angry.

....Zantigos,'' I said, as I pulled my bike out into the front yard. ....Maybe Diefendorf's too.''

....You can't just leave us here!''

....Sure I can,'' I said. ....Diane did. You'll be fine. I'm taking Craig with me. You only have to watch Heather.''

My brother and I stuffed our sweat socks with wadded up dollar bills, he climbed onto the handlebars and braced his feet on the front wheel fork, held on to the bars for dear life, and I got on and started to pedal to keep balance.

....I'm tellin' Mom!'' my sister yelled.

I pedalled back towards her.

....No you're not. Diane won't give you any candy then.''

....I'm tellin' Diane!''

....Who cares? She wasn't supposed to leave us anyway.''

She crossed her arms, annoyed.

....You're a pig! A dummy pig!''

....You are!'' I countered, pedaling around her in a circle, just to rub it in.

....You are!''

....Well, you're in love with Mr. Clean,'' I said, going back to an earlier insult I used to rile her up. Not this time though.

....Well, you're in love with Aunt Jemima!''

....Well, you're in love with the Quaker Oats guy!''

....Well, you're gonna marry Mrs. Butterworth and Aunt Jemima!'' she dropped like an A-bomb.

....Darn right I am!'' I deflected. ....Then they can make me waffles every morning.''

....You jerk!''

....See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya!'' I started pedaling away, against her objections.

....Are we gonna get in trouble?'' my brother asked with trepidation in his voice.

....No way!'' I assured him. ....We'll be back before we can get in any trouble.''

....You're sure?''

....Oh yeah.''

Zantigos was easily a good two miles away, and the beating afternoon sun caused us to stop for rest and egg nog breaks a few times, until the thermos was empty.

....Are you sure you don't want any?'' I asked him.

....No way,'' he held his nose. ....That smells bad.''

....Oh well, more for me.''

Halfway there was Diefendorf's, a small, family-owned shop, deli and bakery that would eventually be replaced by a Walgreens. Walking in the door, over the dark-and-light green checkerboard tiled floor, you'd be beset upon by a variety of scents, which, strangely, made for an enticing rather than a disharmonic mix. You'd have the deli smells of smoked meats, the spicy aromas of salads and casseroles, the warm, enveloping cloud of fresh bread being taken from the ovens and the sweet undertones of the cookies and cakes that were hand-decorated in a variety of eclectic designs.

My brother and I bought two large cookies featuring dinosaurs drawn in green-and-yellow frosting, and two bottles of Yoo Hoo.

....Don't drink dat too fast on thees hot day,'' the rusty cashier said in a thick accent, poking her beefy finger at us. ....You geet zick.''

....Okay,'' I said, as we pushed through the exit, a bell ringing in our wake.

I waited until I had walked the bike about ten feet from the door before cracking the lid on the Yoo Hoo and pretending that I'd unleashed a Swedish yodeler from the bottle.

....Do you know that some Yoo Hoos have a Swedish genie in them?'' I told my brother.

....Yeah, right,'' he said, taking a bite of his cookie.

....Yeah, she pops out and gives you a wish, but you have to eat a bunch of Swedish meatballs and strudel she made beforehand, and if you say anything bad about them, she'll take her wish back.''

....Geez,'' he said, rolling his eyes and twisting the lid off his drink.

....Okay, fine, don't believe me. You'll see.''

He shook his head, opened the bottle and took a big swig.

....Aaaaaaaahhhhh...help meeeeeeee,'' I said in an ever dwindling voice, as if he'd swallowed the genie.

....It's like,'' I began, ....did you know that Bumblebee Tuna is made with real bumblebees, and that sometime they leave a live bumblebee in the tuna by mistake, and you have to be really careful because if you eat it it'll sting your stomach?''

....Will you shut up, please?''

....I'm just trying to be helpful,'' I said, as we finished off our snack and he hopped on the bike.

Several long blocks later, we saw the familiar orange, red and yellow sign.

Zantigos.

Soon after that, we were giving our order to a teen dressed as a chalupa, and then, finally, gorging ourselves on the cheapest items on the menu. At a place like Zantigos, you could get a lot of food for a little money, although what you would be getting wouldn't exactly make Wolfgang Puck green with envy. More like green with botulism.

Still, we were kids, and just going to an actual restaurant and eating there -- even if the restaurant was one that was decorated with large murals of mustached tacos that wore sombreros and included a netted room filled with plastic balls and a giant kangaroo in a pancho -- was a thrill that made us feel much more grown up.

Of course, all the food made us feel much more grown out, which we soon learned on the ride back home, as our bursting stomachs groaned under the bludgeoning humidity. About four blocks into the trip, I realized it really was not a good idea for my brother to be riding on the handlebars, particularly with me downwind. At my insistence, he switched out and took the bike seat, with me riding standing up the whole way back. To be fair, both of us took periodic ....gas station breaks'' when the need arose, stopping at a spot we could pedal away from rather than unleashing a toxic digestive cloud that would linger and follow us.

Dodging traffic and avoiding vomiting, we made it back home safely.

Just in time to encounter a scene that seemed ripped out of the Planet of the Apes.

If General Zaius had been spotted on horseback, carrying a spear, it wouldn't have shocked me.

Along the span of three yards, an equal number of gravel driveways and the rarely-driven-on street, an unruly, squabbling bees nest of hillbillies buzzed with tension, sweat and slurred insults.

Watching from the relative safety of our apartment building's porch were my sisters and Tracy, all of whom were eating red popsicles.

....What's going on?'' I asked, as Craig and I got off the bike.

All three of them jockeyed to blurt out the fragments of the story as quickly as possible.

....Niguel was running through the hose and slipped and she thought Turquoise pushed her but Turquoise said she didn't and then Trucker said she did and then Track called her an N-word and Jarrett pushed Track down from behind and then Turquoise got thrown at with a rock but it hit Veranda and then Keith and Corey started fighting and then Keith fell down on the ground and hurt his leg and then Track and Jarrett started fighting and Track got a bloody nose and then Track's Dad and Mom came out and then Niguel's grandpa started yelling at them and then Jarrett and Turquoise's aunt came out and then Track's Mom and Dad started yelling at her and then threw a cigarette at her and then she got mad and …''

Their story was interrupted by the continuing real-life drama already in progress.

As they were chirping, Jarrett and Turquoise's aunt and Track's Mom savagely jawed at each other for a few moments, before being pulled apart by a pair of the older menfolk who were gathered around – albeit over the objections of part of the growing crowd, who hooted, ....Let 'em go ayyt it! Yaayuh! Let 'em go!''

That didn't stop them from yelling at each other as a distance was built between them. Nor did it stop another woman, with a baby wearing nothing but a diaper slung under her arm, from jumping to the side of Track's mother and yelling racial slurs.

While this was going on, a kid wearing a too small Cleveland Browns t-shirt and no pants, only tighty whiteys that matched the shirt in a way I'd rather not detail, made his way behind the dumpster off to the side of our front yard, pulled down his underwear and took a leak. Another two kids were sitting in the driveway, putting gravel in their mouths and sucking the dust off like it was candy. And an old man with a shrunken apple face, angry gray bedhead and a voice like lung cancer kept graveling out, ....Who sayyd Keith wuz throwin' rooaaacks?'' Over, and over, and over again.

My siblings and I just sat and watched, these soap operas much more interesting than those on the TV inside.

....Where did you get those popsicles?'' my brother asked my sisters and Tracy.

....Tracy's Mom's,'' Tara said.

....Ya want some?'' Tracy asked through Joker-red lips, tossing her stick aside and wiping her hands on her stained sundress.

....Yeah,'' my brother said.

....Do you have a Coke?'' I asked, as my stomach continued to feel like an alien was about to pop out of it.

....Yeah,'' she said, as she skipped up the steps to grab us some concessions.

While she was inside, the fighting slowed. Yelling turned to talking, and people went to their respective corners. But you just knew it wasn't over from the arm gestures and the insider chatting that was going on in all the concerned camps. As it always was in these instances, it was just a matter of time. A matter of something setting things off.

A few minutes into the detente, a blur of activity was seen out of the corner of my eye, and a kid whose legs were already pocked with band-aids and dirt slid off his bike onto the concrete and started to cry. His bare leg looked like a field of red waffles sprinkled with tiny rocks. Blood and dirt mixed to stain his socks and shorts. A woman with a red tank top and hair that looked like straw ran to his side as a shirtless man in dark jeans, slurping a beer, bellowed ....Cain't be doin' thayt, Porsha, you gonna turn that boy inta a pussy!''

The boy's face was twisted crimson like the bottom hunk of some pathetic totem pole, and his jaw bobbed against the woman's flat, tattooed chest.

....What happened?'' she asked.

Sobs.

....What happened?''

All it took was his skinny arm to point accusingly at another boy and the war started up again. Accusations hurled from spittled mouths. Kids bawling. The old man, like a wind up toy, stumbling around again, a b-actor making the most of his one line, ....Who sayyd Keith wuz throwin' rooaaacks?'' And the same two older guys, one black and one white, trying in vain to cool things off.

This wasn't the first time this happened, and it wouldn't be the last. The series of conflicts was never-ending, and could usually be found daily in the summer, when people sought to escape their non-air conditioned homes and apartments. They didn't always last this long, they didn't always end in fisticuffs, they didn't always involve as many people, but typically someone had some beef with someone else, and it was usually over some implied or interpreted disrespect. I always found that odd, since the people seemed to have so little respect for themselves. But maybe that was why they demanded so much from other people.

There was a time, when we first moved into our apartment, that it was frightening and unsettling. Now, it was just life. Something that went on in the background, like a neglected TV in the next room airing ....The Jerry Springer Show.'' You could watch it from time to time in amazement and awe, then go back to your own business. Since we were kids on the outside of the fray, we could just watch. We were typically disregarded. This wasn't a shock. Most of the people didn't pay much attention to their own children, let alone anyone else's.

Even at a young age, and particularly in retrospect, it was intriguing to behold the various people do their thing. Some of them were constantly itching for a fight. Others were unpredictable, and could go either way depending on the day. Some of them were trying to keep the peace, maybe not for altruistic means so much as for a desire for quiet. They always had a weary, faraway look in their eyes, obviously hoping for some escape. Drink or death. Not yet visited by the latter, they tended to be drunk all the time.

I imagine this is what it was like as humanity was evolving. People jumped along at different levels, some still clinging to Neanderthal ways while others, stimulated by the discovery of fire and their expanding usage of handmade tools, began to eschew the ways of certain hairier members of the tribe.

Tracy emerged from the door of the apartment building, fresh popsicles and a pop in her hand.

....I didn't have Coke,'' she said, handing me a Mountain Spring, which was the generic store rip-off of Mountain Dew. Oh well, I thought, it's a pop, it should calm the storms of my stomach, right?

Unwrapping her popsicle, she started singing a song she'd heard on the radio upstairs.

....I-I-I-I've been to paradise, but I've never been to me...''

My sisters, who also liked the song, joined in.

....That song creeps me out,'' I said.

....Why?'' she asked.

....That line about ..I've seen some things that a woman ain't supposed to see.' It's kind of creepy. I mean, what did she see? What's that freaky or disgusting?''

....Well, she says she's been to paradise, how can that be freaky or disgusting,'' Tara added.

....Maybe she's been to me and she didn't like it, being to herself, and she's lying,'' I said.

....I don't know,'' Tracy said. ....I just like it.''

....Maybe it's something really gross or perverted though,'' I retorted.

....Maybe not.''

....Maybe.''

....I don't care. I don't know what it means and I don't care.''

And that's the thing. She didn't, really. She was blissfully oblivious and I envied her that. I, on the other hand, for some reason, obsessed on things. Even at that young age. I couldn't just enjoy the song, or discount it as stupid. No, I let it linger. Like the time I watched a car drive on two wheels on ....Starsky and Hutch'' and spent weeks nagging my parents to do the same thing. Or when I watched a marathon of ....Land of the Lost'' episodes that included a scene of a Sleestak looking in Chaka's cave window before abducting him, and I became convinced I'd seen a Sleestak lurking outside my bedroom window one night.

....I-I-I've been to paradise...'' Tracy continued to sing between nibbles on the popsicle.

Almost as if on cue, a squeal was heard from the battleground. Then, a single word.

....Bitch!''

One tall, skinny, black woman jabbed insults at a woman with a baby in her arms. Judging from the heated dialog, the baby mama had spit in skinny woman's face. The skinny woman, utilizing a sophisticated debate technique called ....tit for tat,'' hocked a loogie at the baby mama. Then, the baby mama, waddling over a few steps to her porch, grabbed something, and hurled it full force into the face of the skinny woman who was pursuing her.

A diaper.

It was obviously full, from its size and the squelch it made. A sickening gletch that could be heard from our porch. Also, obviously, from the reaction it got from the woman whose face it plastered.

Once pee-soaked diaper hit face, all bets were off. It was chaos. A few men tried holding the women away from each other, but they kept breaking apart and taking swings. The skinny woman leapt at the baby mama, slapping at her face as the baby in the woman's arms jiggled precariously, smacking against the mama's girth. A handful of other people who had elevated to the level of having some common sense got between the two women quickly.

....Hey! She's got a baby in her arms!'' one yelled.

They paused a few seconds, then a child who was probably no older than nine or ten was handed the baby. The larger woman then turned, cocked back a meaty arm and launched it at the face of the skinny one with a loud smack against her jaw.

I wondered then, as I wonder now, about this baby. What happened to it? It was obviously saddled with an unprivileged childhood, the odds of birth going against it, but then again, we weren't flush with money either, and we recovered to become responsible members of society. Who's to say his mother didn't turn her life around and junior didn't end up becoming the next Doogie Howser? Or the next Neal Patrick Harris?

But then again, he could've become the skeevy looking guy who slowly circles the elementary school in his parents' Buick, or the guy with the bad facial hair and perpetual tank top who's part of the reason I've got to sign eight release forms when I buy sinus medicine at Walgreens.

After the baby was in semi-safe hands, the war escalated to disgusting proportions. The woman who'd gotten smacked by the diaper summoned over the Cleveland Browns t-shirt kid, yanked off his gunky underwear and chucked the steaming, stinking mess at her nemesis, missing her and hitting one of the men, causing him to drop his beer.

This caused dropped beer guy's brother to get ticked, because he ....just gave him that full beer, dammit!'' In fact, it pissed him off so much, it caused him to grab a large, damp football that had been sitting in their yard and send a pass whizzing at the beer dropper's head. A pass that completely missed the beer dropper, soared right past the women who threw excrement-filled bombs, and instead blindsided nailed me, just as I was turning around.

I don't know if it was the unexpected nature of it, the fact that it pegged me square in the solar plexus, or the time bomb of ingredients whirling around in my belly, but the combination of all those factors caused a moment that would've won a sweet ten grand from ....America's Funniest Home Videos.''

....Damn! That there kid is spittin' up like the demon from ..The Exorcist!''' the football chucker drawled.

There was no stopping it. I tried, but it was way too late. One heave, then another, and another, and my day's menu was hugging the pavement.

But a funny thing happened, as I looked up and wiped my mouth with my Nike t-shirt.

Everyone was stopped, to look at me.

All the chaos, the fighting, the singing, even the little kids eating gravel, they were all transfixed.

It was eerie.

Now, for a while, this moment lived in infamy for me. It was, undeniably, up to that point, one of the, if not the, most embarrassing moment of my young life.

It would soon be eclipsed in junior high, on the playground during gym class. The regular gym teacher was off sick, and so our music teacher, who made Richard Simmons seem butch, took over, and decided to lead us in aerobics and interpretive dance moves, which we were forced to do accompanied by the sound of Air Supply blasting from his boom box.

Around the time we were spinning to the chorus of ....Lost In Love,'' three kids from the local public school, which was off that day (our Catholic school blew off many of the lesser national holidays), rode by on their bikes. These kids lived in my neighborhood and had already given me enough grief for going to private school. Now, here I was slow dancing with my arms lifted above my head, to some of the most effeminate music ever made.

I think I finally lived that down sometime in my late teens.

And I guess it was also around that time that I started to see the day of nausea in a different light as well.

For whatever reason, after my barfing episode, at least for a day or three, calm reigned among the squabbling families. Of course, a lot of that was due to the fact that they kept on telling the story of me puking over and over, and laughing at it. But, in a way, it was a pacifist's dream, a utopia forged through infantile humor. I was an inadvertent statesman, gaining the peace through lowest-common-denominator laughs. A Bono with boner humor. A Ghandi with fart jokes.

That was also the last day I made my own egg nog. After that, even the thought of it made my stomach churn.

But I would do it again.

If heated words are being spoken, if two nations' leaders have their fingers over the nuclear buttons, if the guys who wrote the ....Left Behind'' books are licking their chops as the sky rains bloody frogs, I'd be ready to rock, to take my place on the sidelines until just the right moment – between the plagues of locusts and the rivers of fire, as the trolls and the demons and the angels and the unicorns are readying their holy and unholy diapers to fling at one another – to bring peace once more.

That's the kind of guy I am. That's the kind of sacrifice I'd make.

Just make sure you've got plenty of milk, sugar, Yoo Hoo and cheap Mexican food, just in case.

copyright 2008 Sean Leary / for more writing see www.seanleary.com

Peace and Love, Ringo, but you're a dumb-ass

2008-10-15T08:53:00.001-07:00

There are still two months left, but so far 2008 has a really strong contender for Idiot Celebrity of the Year.

Number one with a bullet: Ringo ....Dumbass'' Starr.

Yesterday, the former Beatle, who should be kissing the living and dead asses of his three former bandmates whose talent carried him, basically told his fans, who afforded him the riches and career he continued to have beyond 1971, to go fuck themselves.

In a sarcastic, snide video that can be seen on Ringo's website, as well as on YouTube...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pUsBqDfnIzk

...Ringo tells his fans he doesn't want them to send him ....any more fan mail, or photos to be autographed'' because he's ....too busy'' to answer the letters and has ....too much going on.''

Ringo, Ringo, Ringo.

Perhaps none of the thousands of celebrities you've met in your life have mentioned this to you, but this is how it works:

You HIRE SOMEONE ELSE to answer your fan mail.

Yes. You hire a couple of people to answer it, and have a rubber stamp with your signature made, and they rubber stamp it. That way, you don't have to deal with it -- something that's usually impossible for celebs who get hundreds of letters a day, or week -- and your fans remain happy.

Also, let's face it: At this point, anyone who is still writing you fan mail is a.) a luddite who hasn't discovered e-mail; b.) nearing the age of social security; and c.) possibly a psycho stalker.

And if the answer is c.) you probably don't want to piss those people off. Ask John Lennon.

So, instead of risking that by putting out your stupid-ass video, you should've just hired yourself some ....administrative assistants'' and continued on your merry way. In fact, I'm shocked you didn't do that a long, long, long time ago.

Now, if you did have those people, and you're just getting too cheap to pay them anymore, then you're just a skinflint stupid-ass, because I'm sure the Beatles music brings you millions of dollars in royalties each year. More than enough to spare a couple hundred G's in assistants' salaries and benefits.

But if you were ignorant to that option, I'm really shocked.

Oh, and BTW, just because you say ....peace and love'' after or before everything in a dismissive fashion, it doesn't mean that the accompanying insult doesn't count. It's like the preface, ....Now don't get me wrong, I really like so-and-so, BUT...''

There's only one way to salvage this, Ringo.

Say the video was a joke.

Say it was part of a fake documentary on the Beatles or some type of performance art piece or something like that.

People will buy that. The Beatles were always known for having an odd sense of humor. And besides, as mentioned above, anyone who is still sending you fan mail is probably a little on the obsessed side anyway, so they'll probably stop highlighting portions of ....Catcher in the Rye'' in between gun cleanings and marathon push-ups sessions and easily forgive you.

So, take my advice.

Repeat after me.

In a Liverpudlian accent.

....It was only a joke.''

That's all.

Peace and love. Peace and love.

copyright 2008 Sean Leary / for more writing see www.seanleary.com

Nights In Godzilla's Venereal Disease

2008-10-13T14:59:00.000-07:00

So I'm currently on the prowl for color art to accompany the movie review for ....Nights in Rodanthe,'' and in having to look at the title of this movie over and over again, it hits me just how strange and unwieldy it is.

It's not the ....Nights'' part. Nope, lots of great movies with ....Nights'' in the title. The one that comes to mind is one of my recent faves, ....Talladega Nights.''

Or the ....in'' part. Nah, plenty of movies with ....in'' in the title, no ish there.

Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's the ....Rodanthe'' thing.

Sure sure sure, not everything has to take place in a city with an easily pronouncable or recognizable name, but there's just something about Rodanthe that bothers me.

Perhaps because it sounds like a monster Godzilla would've fought? Or maybe a venereal disease Godzilla would've caught?

That could be it.

I just picture this giant cockroach-looking thing that's just afill with pestilence and grossosity, sliming up poor Godzilla as the dude's trying to save Tokyo and the earth in general.

And then Godzilla gets done with a hard day's work, kicking this cockroach thing's ass -- said cockroach thing later being discovered to be named Rodanthe -- and Godzilla drags his tired lizardness back into the sea, with only the muttered ....thank yous'' from some Japanese people standing on the observation deck of a boat or a skyscraper as appreciation.

And of course the irony of that is that due to bad dubbing, their voices aren't heard until a few seconds after their mouths move so by the time the sound finally gets to Godzilla's ears he's already half in the drink and can't hear them amidst the sound of the surf anyway, so he goes down to the briny depths thinking he's just busted his ass for very little appreciation.

Poor Godzilla.

At least he's got some beers and a Tombstone pizza and a new issue of Us Weekly to read. And maybe there's a game on that night, or some ....American Gladiators.'' Yeah.

But then a few days later, Godzilla begins to notice an odd rash on him, a rash that he didn't have before, a rash that he didn't have before he fought that giant cockroach thing, that Rodanthe.

So then, after a few days, he decides to go to the doctor, and it turns out he's got some sort of virulent form of alien VD, also called Rodanthe, because it's been spread all over the universe by that cockroach beast slut thing that's been out skanking it up like that sleazy dude in ....Kids.''

(Somewhere Chloe Sevigny is reading this and going ....Damn it! Damn it! I knew I shouldn't have slept with that giant alien cockroach thing for that movie! No wonder it's so painful when I urinate! Damn you and your method acting, Larry Clark!!!!'')

And it's all because nobody but Godzilla had had the stones to kick this Rodanthe thing's ass before this time. Damn! You suck, Chewbacca!

So anyway, Godzilla goes to the doctor and they drop the news on him, and he's freakin' pissed. He's like ....But I never slept with a giant slutty cockroach thing! I'm a safe giant lizard! I always use protection!''

And the doctor, he's seen it all before, so he's like, ....Sure you do, Godzilla, sure you always use protection,'' and he's like rolling his eyes behind Godzilla's back as he's writing out a scrip for an alien penicillin perscription.

So then Godzilla has to go to the pharmacy at HyVee and they're giving him dirty glances because of what he's there for, and he's like ....What?!? What?!? I didn't SLEEP WITH Rodanthe! I just got this from fighting with it! I kicked its ass!''

And the salty pharmacist is all demure up front, but behind his back he's saying to the other pharmacy workers, ....Yeah, right, Godzilla, we know how you roll.'' Because you know damn well that Mothra, who works at the camera counter at HyVee, be talkin' shit about Godzilla behind Godzilla's back. Damn it, Mothra, why you gotta be that way?

So anyway, then Godzilla takes his medicine, and because there's a happy ending to this story, his Rodanthe ends up getting all taken care of, and he's clean as a whistle and ready to get his dragon on again.

And then eventually he meets his match, a hot female giant lizard thing, because there's that baby Godzilla in the future movies, so, you see, there is a happy ending for Godzilla after all, and he does end up having good karma for all the times he's saved the earth from giant monsters, especially Rodanthe, his most wicked foe yet.

But that's why I don't like the movie title ....Nights in Rodanthe.''

Because of Godzilla.

We really should be more appreciative of him, you know.

copyright 2008 Sean Leary / for more writing see www.seanleary.com

How Metro Station's ``Shake It'' is really about Skittles and teen sex

2008-10-13T14:58:00.000-07:00

Perhaps the most deviantly perverted, and yet, upon third glance, inspirational, songs on the radio right now is ....Shake It'' by the teen band Metro Station.

Very catchy. Very upbeat. Like the song.

But also really kinda pervy and slick in a lascivious guy way.

The song essentially describes a guy and a girl going on a date. It's the end of the night and the guy is trying to get some, basically.

And by ....some,'' I mean Skittles.

But then after he gets the Skittles, I think he's probably also going to want some sex.

So basically I guess the song is a story about him trying to get both.

But will he? How can he? That's what that verse examines.

Then this combination of lines pops up:

....And I was lookin' for a way to get inside (get inside)

But now you're fallin' in love (there ya go now)''

Maybe it's just me, but this makes me think that the guy is resorting to telling the girl he loves her, or tricking her into thinking that, in order to get her in the sack.

And by in the sack, I mean bed, not a potato sack race.

Don't mean to offend any of you professional potato sack racers out there.

But hey, as someone who used to be on the periphery of the ultra-competitive potato sack race scene (I only got as high as the semi-pro ....spud league'' – repeated carpal tunnel injuries ruined my burlap grip, and my chances at going pro) I know it can also be a hotbed of deception. So perhaps the singer of Metro Station REALLY IS TRYING TO GET THAT GIRL INTO THE POTATO SACK.

Who knows? Maybe he knows that she was once a prodigy, who was put off the sport by a freak chip frying accident, and he's a salty veteran who drank and drugged away his prime at potato sack racing fame, and she's his only shot at finally making some sense of this mean, silly, sad old world by winning a trophy at the only thing he's ever been good at – potato sack racing.

And maybe by getting her into the sack, to race with him, he can redeem himself, make himself reborn – and help her get her groove back as well.

And maybe, just maybe, her name is Stella. And so in truth, the novel ....How Stella Got Her Groove Back'' was written when, um, that black chick who wrote that book, what's her name, uh, OH YEAH!, Terry McMillan, got in a time machine and flew to the future, only to hear Metro Station sing about getting a girl back into the potato sack racing groove, and in hearing that song, McMillan was inspired to write ....How Stella Got Her Groove Back,'' but her editor at Random House thought, ....FUCK! IF I HAVE TO READ ONE MORE FUCKING POTATO SACK RACING ROMANCE I'M GONNA FUCKIN' PUKE!!!!'' so she took out all the potato sack racing stuff, and instead changed the scene to Jamaica, and Stella got her groove back not by potato sack racing, but by boning some Jamaican dude who routinely walked around shirtless and smelling vaguely of mango.

And maybe at some point, that Jamaican dude took Stella out on a date, and at the end of the night, he was thinking of a way to get inside (get inside), until he lied and told her he was falling in love with her, and got her to say she was falling in love with him (there ya go now), which then unlocked the key to her heart, her panties, and, eventually, her potato sack, which they then raced in tandem to beat all the evil preppies at Camp RichStar, at which point Rodney Dangerfield and Bill Murray and a rascally gopher popped open fresh cans of Budweiser and declared ....HEY EVERYBODY, LET'S GET LAID!!!''

At which point, both the Jamaican guy AND the singers in Metro Station were all like, ....Damn! If I had known it was going to be THIS easy, I wouldn't have bothered with all that other stuff!''

So, basically, I think that's what ....Shake It'' is all about.

That, and socio-economic conditions in cold war Russia circa 1952-1955.

Next: An academic dissertation on ....Love in This Club,'' by Usher, which is actually about his his Jason Biggs-fueled sex addiction to amorous rendezvous with sandwiches. And, also the Pinochet revolution in Chile and its impact on South American relations with European trading partners.

copyright 2008 Sean Leary / for more writing see www.seanleary.com

Celebrate Column of Random Commentary and News Day

2008-10-13T14:57:00.001-07:00

I couldn't believe it when I looked down at my desk calendar and noticed that today was ``Column Of Random Commentary and News Day.''

I hear it's a pretty popular holiday back in England, where they celebrate with beads, booze, blogging and other debaucheries, but here in the States, it's virtually unknown.

Still, a few hearty souls in-the-know give the day its props. And we do so without the drunken hoopla, but rather in the sincere, traditional way, by writing columns of random commentary and news.

Here's mine. For full effect, please light a candle, spike up the incense, and chant softly while reading it. It's what Benjamin Franklin, the holiday's founder, would've wanted.

What's Hop-pening

The District is going back to where it once belonged -- in regard to Gallery Hops. The ``non-stop art parties'' in downtown Rock Island used to be quarterly gigs, but in recent years, they've sliced them down to twice-a-years.

No more. According to District insiders (wow! don't YOU feel special to be privy to this?!?) they're looking to add a third hop in 2009. They haven't determined in what time of year it'll take place (current hops are spring-winter gigs) and they haven't quite pinned down the theme, but my source tells me ``it's going to be something really cool, with a different spin and a different look than the other District events.''

Man, that'll rock if they decide to center it around Column Of Random Commentary and News Day! I can just see it, next October -- people walking around with little note pads, scribbling things down, blogging at the different gallery sites, as Liquid Fire creates glass sculptures of Ben Franklin and kids chow on popsicles shaped like little kites with keys tied to the wooden sticks... it's a dream come true. For someone whose dreams are very surreal.

Breaker, Breaker

Speaking of dreams coming true, former Moline resident Daniel Breaker (profiled in this column earlier this year for his Tony Award-nominated performance in ``Passing Strange'') is following the footsteps, or rather, hoofsteps, of Eddie Murphy.

Breaker will play the part of Donkey in the Broadway production of ``Shrek: The Musical,'' which will begin preview performances in New York at the Broadway Theatre on Nov. 8, with the official opening on Dec. 14.

Play it Louden

And speaking of former Quad-Citians made good, Stephen Norton and his band Louden Swain (which has been featured on a number of TV shows and in the film ``Snakes on a Plane'') are readying a new album, ``A Brand New Hurt.''

The first single,`` Election Day,'' is already complete and up on iTunes. ``It's fairly topical right now, as it's a non-partisan song about the need for change, and hope for the future,'' Norton said.

As with the group's previous work, ``Hurt'' is a cool, slick slice of power pop and rock and you can get it at wrecka stows nationwide and online at Amazon and those other places. You can listen to the guys' new tunes at www.myspace.com/loudenswain.

Hearse Life

Also in the realm of former Quad-Citians doing creative things, filmmaker Peter Rodkey is readying his new film, "Hearse Life" for release. The documentary is a funny, irreverent and rather strange look at the history of the hearse automobile.

You can check out the trailer -- which is not for the kiddies -- at http://videos.streetfire.net/video/Hearse-Life-Promo-Trailer_179936.htm.

I'll have more info on Rodkey and his film in a feature interview in these pages down the line.

Nights in Rodanthe with Godzilla

Ever notice that Metro Station's song ``Shake It'' sounds really pervy if you listen to the lyrics? Think that there's something strange going on in those Heineken commercials? Wonder how the film ``Nights In Rodanthe'' relates to Godzilla? The answers to these and other questions you didn't ask can be found this week on my blog, at http://theseanlearyshow.blogspot.com/. Check it out, if you dare.

Well, there you go. Happy Column Of Random Commentary and News Day 2008. Wherever you are, Ben Franklin, I hope I've made you proud.

Are You Ready To Laugh?!?!?

2008-10-08T12:55:00.000-07:00

At one point, back in the dark ages, humor was hard to come by.

Primitive Ziggy comics carved onto a cave wall.

Michelangelo's Garfield.

Julius Letterman's Top X lists.

Now, our options are limitless. Regardless of how arcane or demented your sense of humor, the Internet has got something for you.

And if your something includes humorous columns, movie reviews, entertainment news, stand-up comedian profiles and a strange proclivity for vague homages to ``Scooby Doo,'' Jason Tanamor has got the site for you.

This week, Tanamor re-introduced his online magazine, Zoiks! at http://zoiksmag.blogspot.com. Tanamor, who covers the comedy beat for this newspaper and is a regular contributor to my own humor magazine, The Dingo, has been writing professionally for over a decade. His bibliography includes the novels ``Hello Lesbian'' and ``Anonymous,'' which was released earlier this year and caused a buzz among the Cult of Chuck Palahniuk for its on-the-sleeve homage to the author of ``Fight Club'' and ``Choke.'' He's currently working on a new novel he describes as ``a warm-and-fuzzy story about a serial killer.'' Oprah, take note.

Recently, after calling me to bail him out of jail after he was busted selling counterfeit Pokemon cards, Tanamor reluctantly sat down to shamelessly promote his new website while indulging in a nutritious meal of werewolf chicken nuggets and children's Tylenol.

``There's never been an outlet for stand-up comedians, so I thought I'd provide it,'' Tanamor said, magnanimously. ``The whole idea is that it's humor-oriented, but humor with entertainment and pop culture.

``We're never going to run serious items about someone dying or anything like that,'' he said, before smirking and adding, ``unless we're making fun of it.''

As you would probably suspect, given that comment, the site is rated PG-13.

``It's mostly family friendly -- mostly,'' Tanamor laughed. ``But there are some swear words. I mean, it's the Internet, so I think everyone would've been disappointed if we didn't have at least some swear words.''

But then again, there's no law that says everything has to be kiddie-friendly. Is there? Not yet? Good. Good.

At any rate, adults, or those masquerading as them, will find plenty to like on Zoiks! It currently features interviews with comics like Tommy Chong, Norm McDonald, Frank Caliendo and Harry (``The Simpsons,'' ``Spinal Tap'') Shearer mixed in with a bunch of snarky commentary by writers from across the country, including yours truly.

Tanamor originally launched Zoiks! in spring 2004 and ran it for almost 18 months before having to give it up when he got too busy with other work. When he went back to re-launch the site, he found he'd forgotten his password, as well as the answers to the security questions he'd made up, and the site's host, Yahoo! wouldn't reveal them, despite his efforts.

``It sucked, but the good thing is I can vouch that Yahoo!'s security is as tight as advertised,'' Tanamor laughed. ``So I ended up just doing it at this new site. Fortunately, all the writers who were involved before were cool about it and still wanted to do it when I asked them this year.

``I missed doing it,'' he added. ``And the fun thing is that I get a chance to talk to people that I'd never have the chance to talk to otherwise. I get to interview pretty much everyone I idolized growing up. It's also a chance to get a group of people with the same sensibilities and sense of humor together.

``And besides that, the public has a right to know this vital information!''

Tanamor updates the site with new work on a regular basis, ``to make sure people always get something new when they hit the site, and to get them coming back every day,'' he said.
``I'd like to get this to the point where it's something as well known as The Smoking Gun or a site like that,'' he said. ``Something where people know they can go to it and they're going to get quality work, something interesting. Something they'll like to read.''

He paused for a second, caught what he just said and started to laugh.

``Well, duh, of course I want it to be something they'll like to read! I don't think it'd be any good if it was stuff that people didn't want to read.''

No, then it'd be ``Deep Political and Economic Thoughts,'' by Paris Hilton.

Then again, that might be interesting to read. All two paragraphs of it.

No Michelangelo's Garfield though.

copyright 2008 Sean Leary / for more writing see www.seanleary.com

Let's Write A Story Together...

2008-09-30T09:54:00.000-07:00

Interactivity is the buzzword in today's entertainment.

Videogames offer the most obvious example, allowing people from around the world to compete against each other, and the game. However, other media are following suit.

Earlier this fall, the book/collectors card/website series ``39 Clues'' debuted, inviting readers to become part of a treasure hunt that could net them thousands of dollars by solving an unfolding mystery at www.the39clues.com.

About a month before that hit stores, Weezer's Rivers Cuomo went on YouTube with a string of videos called ``Let's Write A Sawng,'' letting fans write a song with him (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=thYRy9MBY_c). Cuomo posted a skeleton of a composition to get things started, then allowed fans to send in videos or audio files continuing it. Cuomo would pick the best bits, stitch them into the new fabric of the ongoing composition, and invite aspiring songsmiths to, again, add to it. Within a month, a new -- and actually quite good -- song was written, all as part of a collaboration between Cuomo and a bunch of previously anonymous Weezer fanatics.

So, I thought, after seeing that happen, why not do the same with a story? Why not write an interactive story, allowing readers to jump in, move the tale along, and be a part of the fun?

Why not?

There's really no reason, and it's easy enough, so I'm moving forward with it, and inviting you, the readers of this column, to write a short story with me.

I'm going to start the story here, and post it on one of my blogs -- The Sean Leary Show (http://theseanlearyshow.blogspot.com/) The blog will allow people to comment and add on to the story, and I'll pick the funniest and most interesting snippets along the way, add them to the story, and keep it going. Preferably, writers adding to the plot should do so in 5-7 paragraph passages. Don't suddenly send me 5,000 words. Just a little bit, to spice things up and keep it going, to allow for others to do the same. The more people involved, the more odd ideas cooked up, the more fun it will be.

As things move along, as Cuomo did, I'll offer suggestions as to where the story should go next. For example, once we get the characters and the scene established, we'll need to move the plot along. At a certain point we'll have to hit the rising action, the climactic scene, and finally get to a conclusion, which will happen in mid-October.

But the cool part will be getting there. The fun will be in seeing where everyone takes the story. You can pretty much take it anywhere you want, within the confines of the groundwork that's come before. And when the story is finished, not only will it be posted on the blog, but I'll include a copy of it in my upcoming book of strange short stories, ``My Life As A Freak Magnet.''

So, let's get started. Below is a beginning to the story. It's posted on my blog. To continue the story, just to go http://theseanlearyshow.blogspot.com/ and add on to it.

I'm looking forward to working with you...

``The night was as moist as an individually wrapped snack cake.

I was as beat as a rented mule with red hair.

I slunk into my favorite diner, Gluey's, and poured myself into a booth. I love Gluey's. For the food. For the flavor. And of course, for the horse farm on the adjascent property. The one that always seems to be rotating in new recruits to replace those old shoes that mysteriously disappear. Some point to repeated sightings of weird lights in the sky and say the mighty equines are abducted by aliens. I'd like to think they're liberated, one by one, by a masked bronco who looks suspiciously like Mr. Ed.

At any rate, they only add to the color and pageantry of the place, which prides itself on its interactive menu. For example, order the Hobo Skillet, and you'll get it served to you by a genuine tramp, unshaven, unshowered and with clothes that smell like moldy beef stew.

It was on that oily evening, just after I had gotten my skillet from Tin Hat Willie, that...''

copyright 2008 Sean Leary / for more writing see www.seanleary.com

My Life As A Freak Magnet

2008-09-30T09:09:00.000-07:00

Here's the opening short story from my upcoming memoir collection of short tales, ....My Life As A Freak Magnet,'' which will be in stores worldwide sometime before Christmas, probably in late October - early November.

As with all of my stories, you're free to spam it out to your friends, forward it to as many people as you want, post a link to it on your website or MySpace page, whatever, as long as you keep the title and by byline on the top and my copyright notice and website info at the end.

Hope you enjoy it!

MY LIFE AS A FREAK MAGNET

By Sean Leary

Hi.

I'm Sean Leary. And I'm a freak magnet.

Sometimes this is very bad. Sometimes it's good. Almost all of the time, it's memorable, and leaves me with an interesting and/or amusing story to tell.

In fact, on a metaphysical level, I think I subconsciously attract weird people into my life to have things to write about.

Because it can't simply be coincidental.

It's not that my imagination falls short of inventing interesting people, but those I meet and run across on a seemingly everyday basis only augment the colorful detail and parade of eccentrics I incorporate into my stories.

This has been the case since I was a kid. For example, there was the neighborhood boy who insisted on defecating into used coffee cans and burying them in the field behind his house because he was afraid of monsters that allegedly lived in his toilet. There was the girl I first kissed, who used to think that aliens were monitoring her and had dreams of us both being abducted and taken aboard the ship to participate in sexual experiments -- dreams she insisted were real. There was the music teacher who used to take our class outside onto the playground and lead us in yoga aerobics -- while Air Supply played in the background -- and ended each session with us ....giving ourselves a big hug'' at which point we would have to wrap our arms around ourselves. And of course who can forget the social studies teacher who had an iron plate in her head or the math teacher who used to pause in the middle of a sentence and stare into space for thirty seconds or more before continuing or my friend in junior high who'd accidentally sawed his right foot toes off at a younger age and who, upon every great achievement, used to say ....Pretty good for a kid with no toes!''?

I sometimes feel self-conscious telling people about this troupe. I wonder if they somehow look askance at me for having associated with these people, when in fact most of my relations with them were due to chance and circumstance. Nonetheless, they make for good stories, and my only hope is that while I'm spinning them, the person listening (or in this case reading) is laughing with me and not at me, for my predilection for attracting strange people into my life.

People like the woman I saw at Borders book store recently.

I had met my friend Jason there to shoot the bull, and afterwards, I went over to the video section of the store. I'd like to say it was to get something pretentious and classy like a Peter Cook anthology or some ......:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Fawlty Towers'' episodes, but in reality it was to see if they had a copy of ....Meatballs.''

When I got to the comedies section, I began to notice three small children running roughshod throughout the department, loosely accompanied by a child of some pre-teen stature holding a baby and a woman yakking away on a cell phone. The woman, whom for lack of a better word I will call ....the mother,'' was holding a conversation about some soap operatic topic involving the baby daddy to at least one of these kids, while alternating between ignoring and yelling at them.

The baby started to cry. A little bit. It also started to make a weird gagging sound as well.

The ....mother's'' response to this situation?

She turned to the pre-teen who had been holding the child, barely peeked around the cell phone attached to her ear, and said to the girl...

....Get that baby a Coke! Now!''

Get that baby a Coke.

Not, ....let me have her/him.''

Not, ....does he/she need to be changed?''

Not, ....I think the baby's tired/hungry, perhaps a bottle of milk or formula would be in order.''

But, rather, ....Get that baby a Coke.''

A Coke.

For a baby.

And then when the girl stood, paused, the woman snapped at her, snarling that she needed to now ....move her ass AND get that baby a Coke.''

I'm not sure if she next asked her to juggle or play the violin with her toes as well, because I made a beeline to the counter.

This, combined with my previous experiences at Wal-Mart and other places, has led me to the conclusion that somehow my guardian angels or my higher self are guiding me on the path to meet strange people.

Which I can then incorporate into my stories.

Which I can then pass along to you.

So, hopefully you are entertained by them. Perhaps YOU'VE had a bad day and are in need of some laughter. Perhaps these stories provide that laughter.

But please just make sure you're laughing with me, not at me.

Because I'm not a bad person. I'm not a freak.

After all, I know that if a baby's crying, the last thing you do is give it a Coke.

You get it a fucking Fresca for cripes sake.

copyright 2008 Sean Leary / for more writing see www.seanleary.com

Nights In Godzilla's Venereal Disease

2008-09-30T09:08:00.000-07:00

On Clay Aiken, Sarah Palin, Jack's Mannequin and more

2008-09-30T09:06:00.000-07:00

Oddly enough, when I need a break from writing stories for the newspaper, what do I often do?

Write.

Only I write completely unedited and unencumbered and about subjects that are more wide-ranging and eclectic.

Such as these.

Here are some comments on recent developments in the world of pop culture and elsewhere that I've been jotting down all week, and now I'd like to share them with you:

* I was really, really sorry to see David Foster Wallace kill himself. He was one of my favorite writers and a massive, massive talent. I'm sorry I won't ever be able to read new work from him again. Huge tragedy for the arts world.

* I'm really looking forward to seeing Joss Whedon's new show, ....Dollhouse.'' Sci-fi about secret agents who are brainwashed and programmed with new identities for each mission? A shadowy conspiracy and ....X-Files'' like plotlines? Sounds cool to me!

* Like him or not, you can't deny Kanye West is the most talented guy on the hip-hop scene right now, and probably the most talented hip-hop performer of the new millenium. His songs and collaborations are always cool, interesting and imaginative. If he didn't make such an ass of himself sometimes, it would be even better, but even with his tantrums and antics, you can't deny the guy's music.

* Good for Clay Aiken. The guy finally came out of the closet, and he did it for the right reason: He couldn't bear to think about having to subject his child to a life of lies and shame about his father's lifestyle. That's the sign of a good parent. And the sign of a human being evolving to the point that he doesn't give a damn about what people are going to say about him. Good for him.

As for anyone who has a major issue with it, I would offer my own opinion on homosexuality: Why should I care? The day Aiken made the announcement, my life didn't change one bit. Gas prices didn't go up. My mortgage was still the same. I still had a sinus headache from the crappy weather lingering from the previous day. My paycheck remained the same. I still loved my wife and kids.

In other words, as long as what other people do in their free time doesn't hurt me, or any other person, I really couldn't care less about it. Yes, it's my job to comment on it, but aside from that, it doesn't have any effect on my life. I don't care. Live and let live.

That's why I'm a Libertarian.

* Speaking of politics, after reading her interviews, reading about her record and hearing her speak I'm convinced John McCain really needs to dump Sarah Palin from the Republican ticket.

I'm sorry, folks, but she's completely and utterly unqualified to be president. It's not because of her gender. It's not because she's got five kids. It's because SHE'S COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY UNQUALIFIED TO BE PRESIDENT, AND BEING QUALIFIED TO BE PRESIDENT SHOULD BE THE FIRST QUALIFICATION FOR A VICE PRESIDENT.

Why? Because if the president dies, you're it, baby.

And I don't want someone as unqualified as Sarah Palin running the free world. I don't want her sitting across the table from Vladimir Putin. I don't want her having to try to deal if there's another terrorist attack. She can't even handle an interview with Katie Couric without getting flustered. What the hell is she going to do if the Chinese or the Russians want to get tough and she has to go to a summit and face off against them?

McCain needs to dump her and pick up someone who's more qualified. A Chuck Hagel type would be a good choice, as would Colin Powell. If he wants to go with a woman he should pick up someone with far more experience. I'm no big fan of Condoleeza Rice's decisions or politics, but I couldn't deny that her resume certainly would warrant selection.

Again: It's not because she's a woman. It's because she's not qualified for the job. So please don't call me a sexist. Especially since I would've voted for Hillary if she was the Dem candidate. I don't care about her issues with her husband. I do care about the fact that when a Clinton was last president, gas was a lot cheaper, my 401K was doing a lot better, and my paycheck was going a lot farther.

* On the same note, if someone doesn't want to vote for Barack Obama, that doesn't automatically mean they're a racist. It might just mean they disagree with his politics. They alone know the answer to the question as to whether his race has anything to do with it, and they have to live with that. But it's not fair for people, as some have, to give guff to white opponents of Obama and assume their support of McCain is because he's the white guy running.

Just in general, people shouldn't vote based on race or gender. The office of president is too important. People should vote based on who they think is going to do the best job, because it's the most important job in the country. If you were going to have to have surgery, you would want the best and smartest doctor, regardless of their race or gender, wouldn't you?

* And now to end with something light: I can't wait for the new Jack's Mannequin album, coming out on Tuesday. If anyone out there doesn't own the group's debut disc, ....Everything in Transit,'' please do yourself a favor this weekend and pick up a copy. You won't regret it. It's brilliant stuff.

That's all for now. Hope you all have a fun and safe week.

copyright 2008 Sean Leary / for more writing see www.seanleary.com

Local Ad Love Triangle Showdown: Tiffany The Torso vs. Blue Moon Girl

2008-09-25T11:11:00.001-07:00

I love local TV commercials.

Some are great, some are good, some are truly awful.

And then there are those that are, in the words of Billy Ocean, simply...awesome.

In a strange way.

Such as the ad featuring that international superstar Tiffany the Torso.

Who is Tiffany the Torso? Some demented character in a Quentin Tarantino film? A circus freak? A professional wrestler?

Oh, no, kind readers.

Tiffany the Torso is the coffee expert who weighs in with her incredibly important opinion on the topic of Big 10 Mart's large- sized java.

Maybe you've seen the ads. They play out like a fake YouTube video. On screen we have Tiffany the Torso -- a thigh-to-neck abdomen that's, judging by the anatomy, either female or mid-op sex change she-male -- dressed in pink and holding a little dog, a la Paris Hilton.

The voice-over guy excitedly announces that Tiffany the coffeeateur has deigned to undertake the daunting task of judging a blind taste test between Big 10 Mart's joe and a more expensive java house brand. You know, one of those big ol' fancy drinks that think they all that.

Well, sick burn on you, fancy liberal media communist hippie coffee house brand, because after just two drinks, Tiffany the Torso picks the Big 10 Mart joe. Just to rub it in, and risk a lawsuit from the catch phrase department of the Paris Hilton corporation, she adds ``This one is TOTALLY HOT!''

Now, after you watch this commercial, you may find yourself asking, ``Why should I care what a Paris Hilton knock-off abdomen thinks about coffee?'' or ``Why did they just show part of her body? Is Dr. Frankenstein making these commercials?'' or ``Did I just see a headless torso drink coffee, or am I really that drunk at 2 in the afternoon?''

But regardless of what you may be thinking, all that matters is that you are thinking of that ad, because that's what it's meant to do. Get you to remember it. Dumb or not. Goofy or not. Dated or not.

Speaking of, another set of local ads I love are the Casino Rock Island commercials, in large part because I think they were made sometime around my high school prom. The actors that were in those ads have long since moved away from the area or look much different now than they did then. The commercial boasts the dated hairstyles and clothing to prove it. I keep waiting for one of the ads to talk about an upcoming concert by ``that hot new act MC Hammer.''

However, I'm guessing the real reason Casino Rock Island hasn't spent the money on a new ad since the first Bush administration is because its executives are blowing all their cash wooing the Blue Moon Trading girl.

That's yet another ad series I enjoy. The Blue Moon Trading Company ads, the ones with the girl receiving gifts from her beau as she judges him on said presents, saying ``He loves me!'' or ``He loves me not.'' depending on the suitability of the present.

Invariably the presents that she deems suitable of her affection are those handbags from Blue Moon. Go figure. Although you probably could've figured that she wouldn't like those other gifts, which included a velvet painting of Elvis on the toilet, a pair of sequined hip-waders and a half-eaten bag of chocolate Skittles.

One day at the mall, my wife and I ran into the actress who plays the girl in those ads. Me being me (read: an embarassment to my wife), I couldn't help but ask her the question everyone (read: pretty much no one but me and a few other demented oddballs) wanted answered.

``So, does he love you, or not?''

``No,'' she laughed (read: sighed with great annoyance), ``he's just an actor. I never met him before I did the ad. I don't know who he loves, but it isn't me.''

Darn right.

He's in love with Tiffany the Torso.

I saw them last weekend at Casino Rock Island. We were all watching MC Hammer perform (read: MC Hammer sadly and hungrily filling a set of baggies with food he was pilfering from the buffet).

copyright 2008 Sean Leary / for more writing see www.seanleary.com

Metro Station's Perverted ``Shake It,'' And How It Relates To Skittles And Teen Sex

2008-09-16T11:54:00.000-07:00

Freight House resurrection just might work this time

2008-09-15T10:46:00.000-07:00

Here we go again.

Another ownership group has decided to play Ahab and attempt to conquer the Quad-Cities' white whale.

The Freight House.

For decades, ambitious entrepreneurs have found their money and lives devoured by the demon of downtown Davenport. They've all started with a surplus of cash and determination, vowing that their concept, their work ethic, was going to succeed where so many others have failed.

Then they've failed anyway.

There have been some valiant efforts. There have been some good ideas.

They've failed anyway.

That's because the Freight House is a deadly, money-hungry beast. Its overhead is huge. Imagine how much it costs to heat and cool that thing, not to mention how much it's going to run you on any potential repairs or routine maintenence. Almost all the huge clubs in the area have died of the same disease.

It's also in a flood danger zone, and if you're skating on the edge of a bad month or two business-wise, or you've got some titantic bills due, having your biz wiped out by Mother Nature is not going to help.

And that doesn't even take into account the competition on the area entertainment scene. Sure, people are going to love you when you're the new kid on the block, but a few months down the road, when everyone's got the same beer specials and there's another club being re-named or re-opened down the street or across the river that everyone wants to check out, you're going to be dumped quicker than a junior high crush.

However, all that said, this just might be the time Charlie Brown kicks the football, the year the Cubs win the world series, and the moment when a winning formula has been concocted to make the Freight House concept work.

The venue is having its ``grand opening'' this weekend, and while all four spots in the 'House will get their glory, in truth, two of them are the keys to its sustained success.

Nope, not Balls and Pucks. As cool as it is, there are sports bars throughout the Quad-Cities.

Nope, not the Ripley Street Grille. As good as it is, there are plenty of other restaurants throughout the Quad-Cities.

The reason the Freight House might succeed this time around is because of Penguins Comedy Club and, perhaps more importantly, Nan's Piano Bar.

If you're going to create a destination location, something to spur people to visit your venue, you've got to give them something they can't get anywhere else.

There isn't another comedy club in the area.

And there isn't another place like Nan's.

Put them together and you've got two spots that will draw an unique crowd. An older crowd. A crowd with money. A crowd that's not going to be as fickle as the dance club or live music club crowd.

Penguins has proven itself to be a reliably strong commodity. People trust it. They know what they're getting if they plan a night there. They know they're going to be treated well, they're going to get a good night's entertainment for their buck.

That's why Penguins has been able to survive through the years despite its various changes in location. It offers something unique to the area, it does it well and it has a solid return crowd due to its excellent service.

Nan's is quickly building the same kind of reputation. And like Penguins, it gives Quad-Citians something new and unique. Yeah, you can go to a bunch of other places to get great martinis, and there are also a few that offer piano music, but there aren't any that offer the combo plate of Nan's.

The sports bar and restaurant concepts of Balls and Pucks and Ripley Street are great, but in reality, they're going to be buttressing the combo of unique entertainment options offered by Penguins and Nan's. It's going to be up to the latter two to make this work.

I think if it's ever going to work, it'll be with this configuration. Finally, the Freight House has struck on a concept that makes sense. They're not attempting the impossible in trying to sustain a dance club crowd long-term, and they're not trying to catch lightning in a bottle with a live music format echoed by several other more-established area clubs. They're playing smart. They're really offering something new.

So far, it's working. They're getting good buzz. They're drawing crowds.

If they can keep drawing them, then the Freight House curse might finally be broken.

copyright 2008 Sean Leary / for more writing see www.seanleary.com

Welcome to The Sean Leary Show

2008-06-27T09:54:00.000-07:00

Hello visitors and travelers!

Welcome to my latest blogspace, The Sean Leary Show.

Not to be confused with What The *&^% Is Sean Leary Thinking?!?, which is my other blogspot space, or my MySpace blog, www.myspace.com/seanleary007, which is also available for your perusal, or my website, www.seanleary.com.

So why another blog?

Well, the ``Thinking?!?'' blog ( http://seanlearyblog.blogspot.com/ ) lives up to its name. It's more geared towards charged political and social commentary, and was predominantly used by me in the early-mid '00s when I was pissed off at the world and the general state of things. It was a launching pad for me venting and passing along information that I thought was being under-reported in the mainstream media. In other words, it was a typical subversive blogspace! LOL.

But, let's face it, some people have no interest in that. They don't want to dive too deep into the heavy. They just want to be entertained, and they don't want to have to wade through conspiracy theories and political rants in order to get to jokey columns about Britney Spears or short stories about me encountering freaks at Wal-Mart.

Which is what led me to...

The MySpace blog ( http://www.myspace.com/seanleary007 ) , which I started in very early 2006, when I began to break out of my ``dark period.'' This blog is much lighter, and is dedicated predominantly to cultural, social and entertainment commentary. There are a lot of short stories, poems, columns and such on there. I'm also going to be duplicating a lot of the material on this blog on my MySpace blog since this blog is dedicated to pretty much the same thing.

So, again, why this new blog? Especially if I've already got the MySpace blog?

Well, because many people can't see or navigate through the MySpace blog. There are parts that you can only peruse by signing up for MySpace and some people don't want to go through the hassle of signing up. With this blog, ANYONE can see it. You don't have to sign on to blogger to check it out. This blog is much more geared for a wider audience, to encourage more interaction and dialogue.

As such, I'll use this blog to do some cool interactive writing and other fun things incorporating my column in the newspapers. For example, if I'm taking a survey on the creepiest people in entertainment, which I'll be doing shortly, I'll use this blog as a bulletin board for people to post their nominees. Likewise, when Oscars roll around, this blog will be available to facilitate discussions on the noms and potential winners. Stuff like that. Fun stuff.

I hope you enjoy it. Bookmark it. Visit it regularly. Feel free to send me messages and comments.

Again, thank you very much for reading, and visiting my space.

Best wishes,

Sean