Don't Hate Me, Mitch

I'm planning my return to blogging in January. Don't give up on my block-headed self quite yet.

Hell, I even gained a follower after weeks of no posts at all. At least one person misses me. (Maybe I should post even less and see what happens.)

May your holidays be happy and safe, folks. See you in '09.

A Farewell Post From Stephanie

Something happened on my birthday yesterday, and it was life-altering.*

I feel like Jim Carrey towards the end of The Truman Show...that's the kind of curveball I've just been tossed by life.

So I'm saying goodbye (at least for now) to Rider and his Block.

Rider is cool with me leaving. He says I'm welcome back whenever I want. He is currently immersed in his writing projects and has said he'll get back to blogging soon. His exact quote:

I'll return to the Block sooner rather than later. I was bitten and infected by the blogging bug years ago, and it's in my blood. But right now I'm having too much fun writing my fiction. My readers will understand. (Well, maybe not McGone, but he's a big boy. He'll deal.)

I thank him for inviting me to contribute. I had a great time. I also thank you for reading and commenting on my posts. I had more stories I wanted to tell here, but they'll have to wait until I sort stuff out.

I leave you with a quote that probably means more to me than it will to you. Extra credit for the commenter who can name the artist and song without Googling it like a punk.

Mama told me when I was young
Stand tall, girl, you’re number one
She said, You can be what you wanna be
But you can’t change the course of your destiny

Stephanie P. has left The Block. Peace and love.

* I mentioned it briefly on my original blog yesterday, but you won't find any details. It's more of a note to myself than anything. If you really care though, it's posted here.

"Dotty? Blueberries, Dotty!"

I try not to overhear conversations people have at work despite the theme of my previous blog, but sometimes it's not possible.

I was serving a customer the other day, and he was on his cell with a woman who apparently did something horrible.

"Dotty?" he bellowed.

I almost spilled his coffee as I poured. He'd startled me.

"They pick up freezer, Dotty?"

That isn't a typo, mind you. He didn't say "the freezer." This gray-haired man in a shirt and tie was talking to someone like they were: A) non-English-speaking, or B) three years old.

He was also pronouncing "Dotty" like "Dod-dee."

"They pick up freezer, Dotty?"

Heads began to turn in his direction.

"You get my note, Dotty?"

I walked away, trying to ignore him, trying to act like I wasn't amused by his tone or his nonchalance at allowing others to hear his conversation. I couldn't tell if he was hard of hearing, but I confirmed later he wasn't wearing a hearing aid.

"The blueberries, Dotty, did you take out blueberries?"

Now the entire coffee house was listening. Blueberries were involved. How could they not want to find out what happened to them?

"On the Post-it, Dotty! I put it on the Post-it! Didn't you see the Post-it?"

Now the gray-haired man rubbed a hand over his forehead and eyes. He was in emotional distress. He looked like Harvey Keitel towards the end of The Bad Lieutenant.*

"The note said to take the blueberries out of freezer, Dotty."

He slammed his hand on the counter. Several customers nearby jumped. A sugar bowl in front of him clinked as the spoon inside flew out. Then the gray-haired man shouted his first non-Dotty statement into his phone.

"The blueberries are gone."

The blueberries were gone. All gone. He was very clear about that fact. He once had blueberries, now he didn't. It was like a Greek tragedy, except it concerned blue fruit. It was like the simple, to-the-point plot of a Lifetime movie. Tori Spelling is "Tori Johnson" in Mother, May I Buy More Blueberries?

"The blueberries are gone now, Dotty."

His statement was so devastating I saw people lower their heads throughout the house. A moment of prayer, perhaps, for the lost berries. Then he summed up.

"All gone now, Dotty. I left a note. Blueberries."

He finally hung up, rubbing his forehead. He eventually snapped himself out of his funk, and summoned me over. In a regular voice he asked for a muffin to go.

"Blueberry?" I asked.**

Ba-dum-dum.

* A movie I'm sorry I watched, btw.
** OK, I didn't say that. But how funny would that have been?

Giving Thanks (And Excuses)

I didn't blog the whole weekend. (Rider hasn't been in touch with me, so I assume he's back to his novel or he spent time with loved ones.)

Saying, "I didn't feel like posting," won't cut it, right?

Saying, "I worked long shifts every day before and after the holiday," isn't good enough.

Saying, "Very few of the regular lurkers on The Block posted on their blogs, either," is weak.

So what did I do that was so important?

I don't want to get into it.

But, hypothetically, I could say that on Thanksgiving my "dad" entertained a "lady friend" named "Candyce-with-a-Y," which resulted in an empty bottle of Jäger and a Friday morning walk of shame to her red '95 Fiero that needed a battery jump. Hypothetically.

Meanwhile, I had a leftover five-dollah-foot-long turkey sub from Wednesday. I stayed in my room, listened to CDs, looked at photos, and played my Gibson.

If any of that were true, it would sound sad.

Honestly, though, as lame as my family situation is, I am thankful for the way my year is ending. Last spring my status quo improved drastically, I made many awesome friends, I have a job, my creativity is at an all-time high, and I have my health.

That's better than most folks, right?

I hope you had things to give thanks for, too.

Our Search For A Band Name, Part 2

Our band is back to voting on potential names.

I'm trying something a little different: picking a news story and coming up with variations on that theme.

A few days ago a Beijing student strolled into a panda cage and was attacked by a bear named Yangyang. It seems he wanted to cuddle the animal but didn't think it would attack. He is recovering in the hospital from multiple bites.

Possible band names:

• The Endanger-ous
• Jumping Fences Towards Furry Doom
• Stupidity Trumps Judgment
• Hugs From Beasts
• Touching Yangyang
• Skidoosh
• Bear Orders In
• You Can't Have My Bamboo!
  
• Black 'n White Blur*
  
• Forever Avoiding Panda Express
  

Please leave your feedback in the comments.

* This would be better if we actually had a black guy in the band; unfortunately we're all pale suburbanoids.

Best Vampire Movie Ever

I saw a great movie this weekend that set the standard for vampire stories, as far as I'm concerned.

It was about a beautiful vampire and a human who fall in love, and how their Romeo-and-Juliet-like relationship affects their respective friends and families. The cinematography was cold and blue. It was directed by a woman named Catherine Kathryn.

No, I'm not talking about Twilight. Heck, no.

I'm talking about Near Dark.

I saw it on DVD and was blown away. It was hard to believe this movie came out 21 years ago. I only realized that when I recognized a much younger "Nathan" from Heroes as the main character.

I love movies where genres are mixed together in a blender, and here Kathryn Bigelow served up a purée'd dish of horror and Western, and it felt like something new and original.

If you already know about this movie, see it again. Buy it.

If you haven't seen it, you're missing out on something far, far better than what Twilight attempts to be.

Compared to Near Dark, Stephenie Meyer's vampire books are like the non-threatening foreign boy that Lisa Simpson wants to hold hands with. But vampires aren't supposed to coddle you and act like one of the Jonas Brothers. They're demons from hell. The minute they're written like gentlemen you've de-fanged them, leaving a pale loser with messy hair drooling on your cleavage with no intention of doing anything about it.

Am I right?

Note: I was a little bothered to see someone's working on a remake. How does anyone think they can make this movie better? It's the most original take on vampires I've seen since Buffy ended its run.

Rider Recuperates from Shock(wave Lithotripsy)

Imagine Paul Newman and the sweaty chain-gang from Cool Hand Luke breaking rocks along a rural road. Now take that scenario and picture them all pounding a single rock 3,000 times a second for 45 minutes.

That's what happened to Madge the kidney stone yesterday.

I was X-rayed and tranq'd and sleeping like a baby, while a machine I call Mr. Vibrato 3000 bombarded my inflamed ureter with sound waves that shattered the 6mm calcium stone into sand.

See that orange ball in the picture to the left? It's made of soft rubber and feels like a wonderful breast--but when the technician flips a switch causing it to vibrate faster than the eye can see, it's like the angriest breast you've ever felt up. More like an electrical shock than a vibration.

I was glad I didn't put my tongue on it.

I now have a red rash below my ribs. If you squint at it in a certain light it looks like George Kennedy's face saying, "Get some water here, boss?"

That's one stone down, one to go.

R.I.P. Madge The Stone

Rider texted to say he is heading home from a procedure that obliterated his annoying kidney stone, Madge.

Turns out Madge has a twin brother named Buster, though. He won't be dealt with for a few more weeks.

Anyways, send Rider your thoughts. He said he "feels like Nick Nolte's mug shot."

I Also Am Lame

I've been saying a commercial catchphrase for the past week.

Have you seen the Dunkin Donuts commercial where the woman gets up on top of her roof and says how much she loves Dunkin Donuts coffee? The announcer says taste tests or whatever have shown that people like it better than Starbucks. Meanwhile other people are getting up on their roofs, hoisting their steaming cups, agreeing with the first woman.

That's when one guy on a distant rooftop shouts, "I also love it."

That's the phrase I've been saying. It's an odd sentence, considering you could just say, "I love it, too." I say it with the same inflection as the guy in the ad. But now my meme has already sort of mutated into a random catch-all slogan with my circle of friends and coworkers.

My best bud Tom was in her Honors class yesterday, and when the teacher assigned a huge project that everyone groaned about, Tom said, "I also love it."

So now we're using it in situations that don't even apply to the meaning.

I encourage you to use it today. Say it to the boss when he tells you he loved your work on the TPS report. Or as a swear-substitute when you stub your toe.

Rider Has Questions About Quantum of Solace

If you saw the new James Bond movie this past weekend, back me up here: it was full of odd choices, wasn't it?

Why did they make Robbie Rotten from Lazytown the Big Bad? The scene where he tied Bond to a beanbag chair and forced him to eat Mentos and a liter of Coke seemed out of place. As was the scene where Sportacus rescued him with vitamin water and fresh fruit. (Spoilers.)

What was up with the theme song by Frank Stallone? "I am a super spy/ And I will defeat your ass/ Just look into my eye/ And I'll spray you with this knockout gas"? What kind of lyrics are those?

Why was Bond's license to kill printed using comic sans? At least use a military stencil font.

Why replace Bond's Aston Martin with a 1987 VW Quantum? They've got Daniel Craig seeking comfort in the arms of his hot therapist ("Auburn Carpet-Drapes") while driving. (Did you see that snot bubble as he blubbered about Vesper?) It just seemed like a weak way to justify using a lame Ian Fleming title.

What was up with the Marvel Studios tie-in? I know this was the first Bond sequel, but why did Samuel Jackson show up post-credits, and ask Bond to be part of the "Avengers Initiative"? That's taking things too far.

Happy Anniversary?

I wish I had never needed to create Rider's Block.

That's a hell of a thing to say on the one-year anniversary of this blog, but it's a sad fact.

I was happier when I was young(er) and stupid(er) and using my real name. My original blog was about my life and everything I loved: family, friends, work, and pop culture. A conniving bitch I now call "June Chipmunk" put an end to all that. She taught me to fear artistic integrity on the Innertubes. She taught me there's no such thing as freedom of speech in a hobby you do on your own time. She taught me that a blog can cost you a dream job.

One year ago I made a decision to keep blogging. But I didn't do it for the usual bullshit reasons.

For example, I never considered wasting anyone's time with posts consisting of a title and a found image...and that's it.

And it's not my style to regularly embed YouTube videos and call it original content. That's tantamount to receiving forwarded emails from your sister featuring ugly pets or cute babies. I delete those sight unseen, and you should too. I'd prefer one quality email from my sis about something funny that happened to her, over the last ten forwarded pictures she put no thought into (as funny as this one is).

I continued blogging because I love to write.

But shutting down the last blog and creating Rider's Block meant changing the way I write. And I don't mean just creating a new name and persona for myself. (Or splitting off discussion about family life into an entirely separate blog.)

It meant avoiding writing about work. There are so many quality stories I can never tell on this blog. That really sucks. I could've written at least one extra post per week on the fucktards I meet on my job. The material practically writes itself. (The good news is that I recently figured out how to delve into some of those stories.*)

Anyway, Rider's Block is one year old. Technically, it should be one more year older and named something else--but you play the cards you're dealt. I was dealt a goddamn shitty hand, but it is what it is.

If you've been around since the beginning, thanks for reading. I'll continue writing. Stephanie P. will help out.**

And if you've stumbled across Rider's Block by way of Google search, stick around. There's more to life than Beowulf.


* I'll say this in advance: future stories on Rider's Block about coworkers are based on fact.
** Stephanie's got more to say than most female bloggers I've lost interest in. Be thankful she doesn't write poems about her dead pet, or that scarf she bought on clearance, or eight paragraphs about her writer's block that leave you wondering what the point was. Or memes! Dear Jebus, the memes! Plus she doesn't command you to worship her. Refreshing, no?

What's The Difference Between Beyoncé And Sasha?

I watched Beyoncé perform "If I Were A Boy" on Saturday Night Live, and she apparently plays a character onstage named "Sasha Fierce."

It's hard to figure out exactly what the difference is between the real Beyoncé and the fictional Sasha. They look the same, sing the same, and gyrate the same.

Then I realized.

Beyoncé has her wind machine set at 5. Sasha's is at 11.

Madge Is Soaking In Him

Rider emailed me last night, saying he wasn't feeling up to posting. He should've just Cc'd it here and published it. I'll do it for him. Funny stuff, although I didn't get his subject line (used as the post title here). Maybe someone can explain it.

Madge The Ginormous Kidney Stone is too big to be flushed out of me. She is now self-aware and speaks to me in the voice of Sarah Palin. "You'll never get me out, Rider, fer gosh sakes."

I'm waiting for health insurance red tape to allow me to get a procedure done at a futuristic facility where they will bombard Madge with sound waves. This would cause her to shatter and scream, "What a world! What a world!" The physician who will dole out this punishment said it will "feel like you've been kicked in the back."

In the meantime, she's dug in pretty well and causing all kinds of inflammation and pain. I'm on three different meds to deal with this experience. I feel like Keith Richards without the talent.

Note: I Googled the Madge phrase and found this YouTube video of an old commercial. I get it now.

Rider's Been Released

I received a text from Rider. He was released from the hospital last night. He said "Madge" is still inside him. I take it Madge is the kidney stone, not the pilot of a microscopic submarine in his bloodstream.

Patient 5 Blogs at 3:33 in the Morning

Add "thumped in the back by a male nurse" to the list of things that make me howl.

I've got kidney stones. Well, a kidney stone, to be exact. 5.9 millimeters doesn't sound like a very large chunk of renal calculi to me, but I'm told its sheer size is the very reason I couldn't go home and piss it out.

I'm in a clean hospital with free Encore on the TV, smiling nurses who inject me with dilaudid--"eight times as strong as morphine!" I was told with a smile--and a free laptop.

It's an IBM running Windows, which explains the slow processing speed and the freezes. I am a Mac, not a PC, and I feel as if I'm cheating on Steve Jobs using such an inferior operating system. But it's free so I'll shut up.

So later today I meet with a urologist who will hunker down and give me the Game Plan for destroying this rock before Bruce Willis and Steve Buscemi land on it with explosives.

I just asked nurse Danielle for more dilaudid.

I'll be out of it for a while.

Live Blogging from Rider's Pharmaceutical Candyland*

Oh, Jebus! Here comes the dilaudid!

I hoped to start this post before nurse Pat injected my IV with that shit, but I'm too late. Only enough time to upload the below pic to my Photobucket and post it here.

Back with details after I ride out this wave of euphoria.

Holy

holy

shit.

* Kudos to McGone for this title suggestion, via text

Rider Is In The Hospital

I just got a text from Rider saying he was admitted to the ER this afternoon. He was vomiting and had a stabbing pain in his back, near his liver.

I'll tell you more when I know more.

Hand It Over, Hand It Over

Golden God, the guitarist in our band, gave me a Smiths CD. He wanted me to know who one of his influences was.

"Listen to it for Johnny Marr," he said, putting a (heartless) hand on my shoulder. "Plug in a good pair of headphones and listen to his guitar. It'll change the way you play yours."

I hadn't listened to The Smiths before (besides hearing "How Soon Is Now" in a movie somewhere). I wasn't sure what to expect, especially after reading McGone's post the other week. But I'm always open-minded when it comes to new music.

After importing the tracks into my iTunes library, I'll say this: "Shoplifters Of The World Unite" may be my new favorite musical discovery of 2008. (Check out my play count.)


Yes, it's partly because of the Marr guitar solo. It raises shivery bumps of gooseflesh every single time I've listened to it. But it's also because of Morrissey's attitude and the lyrics themselves.

Does anyone else have any great music they can recommend for a youngster like myself? I'm looking for that defining track that changed everything when you first heard it.

Odd fact: There's no Smiths albums on iTunes. What's up with that?

Rider's Origin Story - Updated

You say you want to read more Rider?

You say you've missed me since I took a blogging sabbatical from the Block to work on my fiction?

Well, Bunky, I'm back for a special four-part series. It's been almost a year in the making. It tells my origin story and why I was forced to become the blogger you know as Rider.

All you have to do is click the links below for each installment:

"The Devious Tale of June Chipmunk, Part 1"

"The Devious Tale of June Chipmunk, Part 2"

"The Devious Tale of June Chipmunk, Part 3"

"The Devious Tale of June Chipmunk, Finale"

Questions will be answered, secrets will be revealed, and maybe, just maybe, you'll learn a little something about why you should never tell a coworker that you blog.

Tamara Doesn't Live Here, Seriously

OK, I really can't get to sleep right now.

I admit I shouldn't have watched The Strangers alone tonight.

I'm really sorry I did.

And now I can't sleep because I thought I heard someone knocking on the wall outside my bedroom.

Maybe it's the wind, but maybe it's not.

If my cell phone ends up in the fireplace I'll frickin' lose it.

MMS Vs. SMS Blogging

Stephanie checking in with an experiment in posting longer blogs from my Chocolate. SMS limits you to 160 characters but when you type an MMS it seems to let you do more. I will keep typing till it cuts me off. Later on I will watch The Strangers on DVD and see if it's as scary as my friends lead me to believe. Wow. I'm def past the 160 characters mark and still going. I hear Downmind is playing in Joliet later this weekend. I should see them but fundage is short. Is it payday tomorrow? I can't remember. I'm realizing now that as I'm typing I have a 1000 character limit in a picture message like this. Who needs a BlackBerry? Michelle is asking me if I'm writing a novel and how is this phone letting me text so long, so I'm explaining MMS. I haven't told her or Tom about my blog(s) though, so even though I could text more here I better stop before they check to see what I'm up to.

Update: This wasn't supposed to be published. It was more of an experiment, but I didn't check the correct box under the email settings in Blogger. Doy! Then readers started commenting, so I guess I'll leave this post up.

Who's Sorry Now?

I find politics boring, and I never thought I'd blog about them before today. But something happened at work and I need to address it somewhere. (Sorry, Rider.)

I worked a long shift right after school yesterday, and the house was loud and buzzing with folks who had just voted.

A bald guy wearing a suit and tie came in, and as I filled his cup he asked, "So did you vote today?"

I explained that I was a month and a day from legal voting age. Unfortunately.

He sort of settled back and studied me for a moment before asking, "Tell me then, Stephanie, who would you have voted for?"

I told him I didn't know. Both candidates had their strong points.

"Well," he sighed, looking as if he wanted a fight, "are you a Democrat or are you a Republican?"

A Democrat, I said.

He began shaking his head in disgust. In a very condescending tone he actually said, "Oh, I'm sorry."

That's why I don't talk about politics.

November's Most Intriguing Headline So Far

Patrick Swayze unhurt in Berwyn police hazmat scare

Yeah, you almost don't want to click the link and read more, because your imagination conjures so many possibilities.

In fact, I urge you not to read any further. It'll be a guaranteed letdown.

Instead, write your own movie treatment featuring Mr. Swayze, a hazardous materials emergency, dancing, and an antagonist's throat ripped out by hand.

Post your ideas for our cinematic hero's name in the comments. It'll be fun.

For the Last Eight Years...

...America has felt like the muted, hazy, "before" image in those allergy commercials.

Barack Obama just peeled away the offending crap from our nation's collective vision, and we can see clearly again.

Things already feel better, don't they?

Rachel Barton Rocks My World

Have you ever stumbled across a song you haven't heard in ten years? You hear it and you think, "Jeez, why is this not on my iPod already? How did I miss that one when I was racking my brain for 15 great tracks when I got that iTunes gift card?"

I was seven when my mom played "One" by Metallica for me; it was the cover version by violinist Rachel Barton. I remember because it was probably the last talk I had with Mom about music before she died.

As the song played, Mom explained that by the time she was ten, Barton was playing with the Chicago Symphony. "Just three years older than you, Sandpiper."

Anyways, I heard "One" on our school's radio station last Friday, and the DJ said Rachel Barton Pine (she's now married) would be appearing this Sunday at a Best Buy two towns over.

I talked fellow band member Meg White Jr. into giving me a ride (since I'm vehicularly challenged), and we arrived just in time for her concert to begin.

As she played, I sort of teared up, if you want to know the truth. My mom was mostly into rock, but she loved classical music too. She said she'd read about how Barton had been the youngest person, and the first American, to win a gold medal in the J.S. Bach International Competition in Germany when she was only 17. My mom was in high school herself at the time, and she was truly inspired.

I was happy when Meg White Jr. bailed early and sequestered herself in Best Buy's drum room for the hour-plus concert. I was able to sit and enjoy the performance without feeling stupid as I wiped tears from my eyes.

Rachel is so unbelievable. She told stories about her world travels. She joked about the history behind some of the classical pieces. She spoke passionately about her love for heavy metal music and the guitarists she idolizes. Then she played her own rock composition ("Rash," I believe she called it). Her blurred fingers seemed to ignite plumes of smoke from the strings.

She did a quick medley of tunes about her hometown, ending in "Sweet Home Chicago," and she made me proud to live here (even though I'm technicaly in the 'burbs).

It was so cool. She was so cool. Her violin case had embroidered patches of bands like Judas Preist and AC/DC sewn on it.

She got a standing ovation. She took a few questions from the audience. Then folks lined up as she signed her latest CD. Even though there were only about 25 people in the queue, I didn't wait for her autograph. It was all too much for me.

So I downloaded "One" when I started this post, and I'm about to click play.

Mom would've loved today's performance.

This one's for her.

Note: You can download two of Rachel Barton Pine's rock tracks for free at her official site here, including a medley of Sabbath's "Iron Man," "Crazy Train," and "Paranoid." Just register with an email address.

You're Not Funny, Clown

I'm stuck working tonight. I have just enough time on this break to send a quick MMS warning: I started my shift at 4:00, and 3 Jokers have already asked if I wanted to help make their pencils disappear. I start pouring hazelnut blend on the next clown's lap. And yes, I'm serious.

What Larry King Looks Like

Larry King looks like Gollum with suspenders, except his breath is eerily visible. Anyone see that interview? At one point he called McCain "Déagol" and devoured a fish on camera.

How Is This (Wait For It)...Happening?

There are bad ideas and there are bad executions. When both happen at once, if you're lucky, you get something so magically bad it's awesome.

I took part in a talent show last spring, and among the lamer acts that night, one guy decided he would do a dramatic reading of General Patton's speech from the beginning of that movie. Aside from the fact "Patton" wore Reeboks, the timing of the message was confusing at best (i.e. it may have gone over six years ago, but at the time it just felt...off).

The awkwardness as it unfolded was palpable.

I watched M. Night Shyamalan's movie The Happening on DVD, and I wondered how it ever got produced.

Who keeps greenlighting that guy's movies? Why didn't they stop after Unbreakable? His plots and dialogue are so horrible you can't help but laugh out loud.

I love the movie Juno, but one complaint I've heard is how "no one talks like that." That's the point, though. We go to movies to be entertained and I don't want to hear how people really talk. It'd be weak.

But when M. Night puts words in his characters' mouths, they say things like, "Cheese and crackers!" (This was a soldier expressing disbelief). Or you get Mark Wahlberg talking to a potted plant and saying, directly into the camera with his eyes wide, "I'm talking to a plant." (Long, comedic pause.) "I'm still doing it."

Hilarity.

That's the other thing, if you're trying to sell such bad dialogue, get someone who can actually act. Wahlberg always looks like he's attempting to act but knows full well it's not going smoothly.

(I couldn't keep from laughing every time Wahlberg's character tried to be serious, because of Andy Samberg's impression of him. Every time he talked to Zooey Deschanel I pictured him saying, "Hey, Zooey, I produce Entourage. Someday you'll be cool. Say hi to your mother for me.")

Shyamalan has been making unintentional comedies for years now.

Maybe he should remake Patton next. If he can get it greenlit.

Early Voting Shocker on the Block

Rider here, sending a quick post from my BlockBerry.

I just voted early--'cuz I'm cooler than your average American--and I discovered something none of you know.*

I was astounded to find out that Ralph Nader is running for President.

Seriously, did you know that?

I'd heard rumblings about him trying again, but that was last year. Since then...nada (so to speak).

How was this kept under wraps? Did Nader manage to not raise any campaign funds? Or did the mainstream media collectively decide to not mention it?

I consider myself a fairly well-informed citizen. I read most of my news online on a daily basis, and I have a subscription to Newsweek to make sure I catch the summary.

But this was a huge shocker.

I was so startled I voted for the man!**

* "None of you" meaning my two regular readers, not the 111 others who visit here daily and steal my images, or the kids in schools searching for "Beowulf"
** How much would you hate me if I really did? Sound off in the comments.
--
Sent from Gmail for mobile | mobile.google.com

Text About Country Music

My tolerance for listening to country music is akin to my craving for bananas: once a year if at all

Happy 300th and Happy 26th Bday

October 27, 2008 is the 300th day of the year, if you didn't know.

It's also the birthday of Patrick Fugit, who starred as "William Miller" in Almost Famous. He's 26 (but his hair looks the same).

Patrick is in a band called Mushman. Give 'em a listen here.

Potential band name: Sarah

Potential band name: "Sarah Going Rogue"

Busted For Virtually Nothing

We are three-bald-psychics- floating-in-skim-milk away from becoming the society in The Minority Report. Do you realize that?

Here in the U.S. a few years back, a teenager in Kentucky was arrested for writing a story about zombies taking over his school. He was charged with terrorism. But, see, the interesting part is that zombies don't really exist, no matter what Rider thinks, and the kid who wrote it didn't will them into existence to do his bidding...so no harm no foul, right?

But in the last two days there have been reports about folks being sentenced for crimes they didn't actually commit. It's getting ridiculous.

Two Amsterdam teens were sentenced by a Dutch court to hundreds of hours of community service for stealing virtual objects ("virtual" here meaning: not existing in the real world but only in digital form). They were playing an online game called RuneScape and "coerced" a 13-year-old to transfer "a virtual amulet and a virtual mask to their game accounts."

Doy!

In essence, an eighth-grader was talked into giving up nothing to nobody, and now two real kids are picking up real trash along a real highway (where, ironically, they could be struck by a scary-real semi truck skidding out of control).

Then there's the lady in Japan whose Second Life avatar was virtually married to a virtual dude, but when he "divorced" her she killed his avatar...and went to real prison. Can you imagine being so upset by an imaginary break-up that you delete your ex's character and wind up behind bars?

By this logic, when Johnny Baer ripped up my "Princess Unicorn" story back in third grade, I could've pressed charges because he committed genocide against an entire race of beautiful, pink mythological animals who answered to me and my magic rainbow staff that sprayed floating hearts. I'd like to see him hanged for that atrocity! Butter Gallop ran like the wind and I miss her dearly!

This just the beginning. Courts are going to have to decide where reality and digital worlds meet up, and law books will be rewritten. Judges will have to sentence the guilty for all sorts of criminal nonsense.

Avatars of parents will have to be created to answer for the shenanigans of their virtual kids. They'll appear on YouTube saying, "But we weren't logged in when UltraBobby was destroying MileyFan88's Spore civilization! How could we have known?"

Digital penitentiaries will house criminals with insect wings and giant heads and swords for arms, while their human creators sit blankly in front of monitors showing a jail cell with four walls and a cot...just moving their mouse back and forth as they pace impatiently, waiting for their turn in the exercise yard under the twin moons.

Real people held accountable for fake crimes. Nice.

Note: I'm in a virtual prison myself, as we have a substitute here in computer lab who's taking forever to check the class' work on our bouncing cube project. Jeez.

Word of the day: "abysmal"

Word of the day: "abysmal" - as in "the cafe served an abysmal cheeseburger that tasted like a sock off hurley's foot"

Stephanie Enters The Dead Zone

My friend Michelle was eligible to upgrade her phone, so I went with her to a cellular store. When the sales guy finished activating her expensive touchscreen device, Meesh was about to toss her old one in a donation box. Then she said to me, "Do you want it?"

The sales guy's eyes got really hungry. That's the only word to describe it. Hungry. He turned into Fat Bastard from that movie. He wanted to sign me up for a contract so bad he drooled a little. He wanted my money in his belly.

I haven't owned a cell phone before. Up until this past March I had no one to call. That's changed. So I was interested except...no credit rating.

He pitched a prepaid option, but it was more expensive than just adding a line to Meesh's brother's account. So that's what we did.

I offered to pay her the ten bucks a month, but she said not to worry about it. Except I don't like owing people. We made a deal instead: when I'm working she gets free coffees.

I love the phone. It's a "Chocolate." I'm loading some Kaki King tunes on it right now. I found a Heath Ledger Joker jpeg online for the wallpaper. (It's in my Photobucket album here.)

Anyways, I'm happy because now I can blog from my phone* and Meesh is happy because when she's driving I'm the "dexter" (designated texter).

The sales guy was happy because we fed him commission. He burped a little.

* I found out you can put an email address in your contacts, so you can send a text to your blog (under the Settings tab and Email option) which will publish as a post. SMS only allows 160 characters max, though, so it'd be a short entry. But still.

Rider's Fill-In-the-Blank Sarah Palin Word Problem

On the subject of secretive organizations protecting their charges from the press, pulling strings, and exercising masterful spin control to prevent their ultimate downfall and potential embarrassment...

Sarah Palin is to John McCain's campaign as Katie Holmes is to ___________.

Ponder that.

(This post was written by John Smith)

Another Reason To Avoid Fashion

I don't wish accidental death on any person. (I'm gonna have that embossed on my business card someday.)

There are times, though, when I have a good laugh at a freak occurrence in which someone is hurt.

Don't you judge me!

I avoid fashion like it's Ebola. Once infected by either it all goes downhill rapidly and you bleed out, cash or bodily fluid, until your stone cold dead.

So when a fashion contest winner in Australia couldn't collect her prize because she'd been bitten by a deadly snake, I vowed to never succumb to spending more on clothes than necessary.

Fashion kills, is what I'm saying.

This is the extent of my fashion sense.


Note: The above jpeg is part of a series of images I have deemed too "cute" for Rider's Block. When the pix were taken earlier this year, I referred to them as "My Chucks Now Match My Guy's Chucks." I was sad/pathetic/weak at the time, and I like to think I've matured. Here's the rest of that image, if you care. Know my respect for you will be diminished if you look.

Our Search For A Band Name, Part 1

I'm in a band and we're trying to choose a name that would look good on a flyer.

I'm on acoustic guitar and vocals. The bass player is a guy named "Peely Feet." Another dude named "Golden God" plays guitar and also sings. We have a female drummer named "Meg White Jr." (Names have been changed to protect the unaware.) Here are a few of the names we've come up with so far. My suggestions are in bold.

• Pageant Mom
• Blame It On Aiken
• Vegan Zombies With Bulemia
• BallSack SpeedBag
• Chillaxin' Fetal Pigs
• Olmos and the Pockmarks
• Everyone Is Autistic
  
• I'm A PC And I Sell Feesh
• Angelina's Forgotten Children
• Wee-wees 'n Ginees

Please leave feedback in the comments.

Loving Nick & Norah So Much It's Retarded

I loved Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist for so many reasons.

"Mikey" Cera was perfect (again). For those who haven't seen him in Superbad or his hilarious webisodes with Clark, you have to listen to everything he says, because just when you think he's done talking he says more under his breath...and it's always funny.

Finally a director who gets it, i.e. doesn't fall into the trap of putting together a soundtrack consisting of music from 20 years ago in a flick about today's teens. You know, a movie about what the director wishes his teen years were, set in the present, but with songs from his "Senior Year Was The Bomb" playlist on his old-ass iPod. Weeeeeak.

I have one criticism. It's the one thing that's keeping me from adding Nick & Norah to my favorite movies on my profile. "The Drunk Friend Who Looked 25 But Was Supposed To Be 18" was one of the best characters in the movie, but--as a girl who doesn't see the humor in getting sloppy--I wasn't laughing as hard as the rest of the audience. I'm not taking anything away from the actress (and hey, she is 25!), because her performance was perfect. At some point I just realized, "You're the daughter of a functioning alcoholic," and it wasn't funny anymore.

Anyways, I saw Nick & Norah with a few members of my band, and we all agreed: when we finally play our first gig, please let us have just one fan as enthusiastic as the guy literally doing flips for "Are You Randy."

A Return to the Funky Bunch, Mark?

Rider here with a quick filler post.

I'm not gonna rehash events that have been written about by a much funnier blogger than myself, but in just a few minutes, the country is going to find out three things:

1. Whether or not Lorne Michaels is smart enough to capitalize on this past week's buzz over Mark Wahlberg's unfettered rage at an SNL sketch about him.
   
2. Whether the marginal talent in question (and former convict/drug addict/overall dipshit) was actually smart enough to use the press to help boost ticket sales of his movie.
3. Whether the former underwear model will go above and beyond and participate in another "Mark Wahlberg Talks to Animals" sketch--which can only boost his star power and infuse his career longevity another year or two.
   

I try not to be a pessimist, but I fear only point #1 will be true, and Wahlberg will go down in Hollywood history as the celebrity equivalent of Fred O'Bannion in Dazed and Confused...just a sad blowhard with a paddle and an ax to grind.

Spirit Of Rock

I've played guitar since I was a munchkin. I like to think of myself as a musician, but technically I've only been onstage once, and that was a solo performance. Since then I've joined a band and we're trying to find our sound (and agree on a name). I've recently realized there's alot of responsibility involved in that...all because of a movie.

I saw Almost Famous for the first time this past summer, and it left a mark. A good one. It became one of my favorite movies ever, as a matter of fact. It affected me in three ways:

• It made me want to be honest in my song writing.
• It made me want to write more, period (songs, stories, poems, etc.).
• It made me not want to let Lester Bangs' spirit down.

I desperately wanted/needed to learn more about Lester the moment the DVD ended (imagine what he'd say about watching a digital movie on a disc read by a laser, you know?). He was so passionate about music and writing. More than anyone else I can think of. The night I watched it, I actually did stay up all night writing "pure dribble" in my notebook. (Minus the speed or cough syrup.)

Last Sunday I was checking out Boing Boing and found an old interview with Lester from 1980 (who died eight years before I was born.)

I put it on my Shuffle and popped in my earbuds yesterday for a listen while my Lit teacher screened the Great Gatsby under the pretense of comparing the book to the film but we all knew it was because she was hungover and wanted to sit in the dark with her eyes shut.

It's something every musician or music lover should hear. It's a great interview, and definitely worth downloading. The ambient noise of the street in the background annoyed me at first, but then I realized that made if more real...and Lester would've liked that.

Does anyone know where I can find more interviews with Lester? Please comment. (Oh, I'm also taking suggestions for a good name for an indie-alt rock band with a female on vocals and acoustic guitar.)

Stephanie Introduces Herself To The Block

Hello, Rider's Block lurkers. My name's Stephanie. I'm not exactly sure why I was asked to contribute to this blog, but it's flattering (I guess). You must be doubly confused.

I met the guy who calls himself Rider three years ago at a Neil Gaiman book signing in Naperville, Illinois. I wrote about it last year on my blog. Rider asked me not to link to it probably because I use his real name, but he did say I could post a jpeg. (And although he told me to "do whatever you want," he still sent some rules, which I'll get to.)


A few years went by and my life spun out of control. Remember that movie where Elijah Wood got electrocuted on the guardrail and his dead body slowly slid down that icy road? Ice Storm? I'll never forget that scene. If you could run that scene in reverse, that was my life leading up to my sudden electric shock. Boring, boring, boring, drifting slowly, slowly uphill, then ZAP!

I ended my blog after the ZAP (long story), but I was way into blogging for six months there. (I created my Blogger account in 2002 but I'd never gotten serious about it, because, hello?...no life!)

So anyways, last November I got an email from someone named "Rider." I didn't know the name. He blind-copied a Blogger URL to me. I clicked the link and read the very first post on Rider's Block, having no idea it was the same guy who took a picture of Neil for me. I read a few posts and even commented, which is totally unlike me. (I'm a proud lurker.)

Two weeks ago, I was with my boyfriend outside the Tivoli Theatre in my hometown, waiting in line again for Neil Gaiman (pimping The Graveyard Book), when a voice behind us said, "Stephanie?"

It was him. We talked, and he said he liked my writing. He'd discovered my blog after I commented here on The Block. Tracked it down through my profile. (Who doesn't immediately click someone's profile to see whats what, right?)

Long story short: he emailed me later asking if I had anything pop-cult related I wanted to blog about. He was taking a leave of absence. Would I help out? I told him between my job, my boyfriend, and my music, I didn't think so.

But I got ninja'd by another life-ZAP just a few days ago. Again, long story. My life's a disaster. I feel more like writing than ever before. So here I am.

Bored yet? Hope you come back for my first regular post anyways.

Oh yeah, I'll end this by C & P'ing the rules Rider sent me:

• If Valerie returns from her self-imposed Facebook exile, put her back on the Blockroll. (Never forget, though, she is our arch-nemesis.)
• Don't look directly at Slinger's head in sunlight, and don't feed him after midnight or he'll spawn evil mohawked clones. Remove him from the Blockroll if he hasn't returned to blogging by Hallowe'en.
• If I ever spell "Halloween" with an apostrophe between the Es, kill me.
• Dean Xene is size of a leprechaun. If you meet him, be careful so you don't trod upon him.
  
• Don't disclose what our Site Meter reveals about Zibbs. He'll be less smug and no one wants that.
• Don't get Jenks started on Notre Dame or chemistry or sports.
  
• McGone is your blogging ally, but he can turn on you without warning and is known to use the word "fucktard." He is like a drunken, Irish werewolf with Tourette's.
  

Rider Leaves the Block

I started this blog eleven months ago for one reason: writer's block.

I had a metric ton of projects I either wanted to work on or wanted to finish, but the ideas weren't coming. A blog seemed like the best solution to keep my skills sharp and, more importantly, to write something that I could finish to get that sense of accomplishment.

I can say I've had 170-plus moments like that in the form of published posts here on my blog. They were satisfying and they kept me sane during this dry spell.

But I'm finally back to fiction writing, and I'm going to focus on that for a while.

I've known for a long time that I experience creative bursts when I read novels. I thought that trick would work by listening to audiobooks, so over the past year I listened to quite a few of them.

That didn't help, so I went back to actual reading. I read Neil Gaiman, Stephen King, Sarah Vowell, David Sedaris...all normally my favorites. They didn't help me out of this slump (although the latter two probably influenced the essays on my blog).

Then last week a friend lent me a copy of The Quickie by James Patterson & Michael Ledwidge.

Have you read it?

It's shit.

Seriously, it's the literary equivalent of dried human waste in paperback form.

I've never read James Patterson before, and it seems I haven't missed a goddamn thing. I knew by the third page it was worse writing than the amateurish crap we read aloud in Creative Writing 101. By the third chapter I felt anger bubbling up from my gut that a publisher actually paid money for this. And by the time I finished the first third of the book I was ready to click open my "Projects" folder and get back to my writing because if James Patterson can sell his work then I sure as hell know I can do it, too.

It's funny how good writing didn't motivate me, but shitty writing kicked my ass into fourth gear.

So I'm leaving the Block for a while, but the posts will continue. I've invited another blogger to contribute to this pop culture block party, and she's agreed. I'll let her introduce herself when she's ready to start.

I won't be gone for good, my friends, so put down that noose. Rider's Block hits its one-year anniversary on November 16, and I'll probably log in and say a few words then.

If this is all too upsetting for you, write a hate letter to James Patterson.

I'm sure he's heard it before.

"Michael, Why Does Our Show Suck?"

No one in the United States watches NBC on Wednesdays between 7 and 8 Central, so I wanted to get to the bottom of this prime time black hole that, ironically, repels viewers.

Turns out that's when the new Knight Rider airs.

To ridicule the show would be redundant. You don't make fun of the mildly retarded kid in school unless you're a dick. And this show is severely retarded. It's the equivalent of Randy from My Name Is Earl recovering from a Cuckoo's Nest lobotomy.

I'll just say the show would be improved by having K.I.T.T. voiced by a Paul Lynde impersonator--rather than Val Kilmer!--which would include dialogue such as, "Michael, your jeans look fantastic!"

But the oddest thing about the show is Bruce Davison's hair. (Please--if you click no other link in this post, click that one.) The man is 62. And he wears his hair like that.

He looks like grandpa after grandma left him because he wouldn't lay off the Viagra and became impossible to live with. Time to get the Members Only jacket out of mothballs and fire up the Gran Torino and go nightclubbing.

Hey, Bruce, I hear Life on Mars is looking for supporting characters to play 1973 hippie informants.

Upcoming Democratic Strategery

Rider's Block is not a political blog, of course--and there's a very good chance this has been rumored elsewhere--so I'll keep this post short.

I know a guy who knows a guy who works for Obama's campaign, and the plan is to have Joe Biden bow out of the race due to "health concerns"...

...and for Hillary to step in as Barack's VP.

This is set to happen any day now.

If I'm wrong, I'm just another blogger spouting crap.

But if I'm right, expect me to put AdSense on the Block minutes after the official announcement. 'Cuz I could net twenty bucks a year from potential traffic, and I'll need that money to buy my Blu-ray copy of Beverly Hills Chihuahua in February.

As John Hodgman would say, "That is all."

Paramental Weekend

This is you, moments ago: "I wonder what my blog buddy Rider did this weekend." Then you clicked here for my answer. So here it is.

I saw Ghost Town--because Ricky Gervais is the funniest Brit alive--and I watched Ghost Hunters on Sci Fi.

The latter activity caused a rift in the fabric of reality, because I don't believe in ghosts or reality television--yet I watched both at once.

I theorize the only reason I wasn't sucked into a neighboring dimension is because Ghost Hunters isn't technically reality TV.

(The good news: I cancelled garbage pickup with my township because I can now toss my trash into the glowing portal in the family room. The bad news: Boxter went missing while we were playing catch with a tennis ball that went astray.)

Now you're asking the question: "Cripes on a crutch, Rider! Why would you bother watching anything on the Sci Fi Channel? I've produced better movies on my cell phone featuring my neighbor cutting his shrubs in black socks."

Truer words have never been spoken, my blog friend, although I think Sci Fi has already produced a show about a man-eating shrubbery that wears black socks, so try again.

But to answer your question: I can't get enough of "TAPS," as the ghost-hunting team calls themselves, because they've added a new tool to their arsenal of paranormal equipment.

By employing something called a K-2 meter, the Roto-Rooter researchers from Rhode Island (it's embossed on their business cards) can interview unseen entities and get yes or no answers out of them.

Sure, the questioning sequences are heavily edited, and OK, Grant and Jason don't bother explaining how the electromagnetic device actually works--aside from pointing out that the flashing LEDs mean "yes." But the possibility that these guys are actually communicating with the dead is interesting.

A few weeks back they were in an old sweatshop, talking to the ghost of a nine-year-old boy. He admitted he was lonely, and Jason--who looks like Michael Chiklis with bad facial hair--invited the spectral lad to come home with him to live with his five children. It was a beautiful moment. He's like the Angelina Jolie of dead kids.

In last week's episode, they quizzed a female spirit in an abandoned train station. She was still waiting for her man to arrive home from World War II (which explained a great deal about the punctuality of trains in Buffalo and why the station had closed). But the TAPS guys kept their Q&A way too basic. There were so many other questions--philosophical and otherwise--they could have asked but didn't.

• "Are you hot?"
• "Can you touch me here?"
• "Andy Kaufman: alive or dead?"

I smell a Ghost Hunters celebrity talk-show spinoff. There's so much potential in the premise of setting an EMF meter down on Elvis' toilet and interviewing the King. Fox would buy it.

By the way, you can purchase a K-2 meter yourself, and get more party mileage out of it than that Ouija Board you never use because your mother told you it invites the Devil into your soul.

P.S. Wait for Ghost Town on DVD, but first buy the BBC's Office series and see a rotund comedic genius at work.

Even If You Beat Me I'm Still the Best

Paul Newman is gone.

My favorite Newman movie of all time is Cool Hand Luke. I rented it on a whim at the age of 23, and I never liked hard-boiled eggs until after I saw it. Now I think of him every time I eat one.

His performances were riveting. Always.

The one-two punch of both his life and career achievements are unparalleled by any individual in Hollywood--old or new.

He was a gentleman and a class act.

Hollywood will never be the same.

I Know What I Am and That I'm a Man

Subtitle: Rider Disillusions a Coworker

Sometimes my intelligence makes people angry and it's cost me friends.

I'm not saying I'm smarter than the average person*, but when I know things I tend to share them with others. I'm especially compelled to do so when an idiot is determined to make a huge jackass of himself.

Let's set the Wayback Machine to young Rider's 16th year. I was working at McDonald's, and I'd just been promoted to working the grill. A dream fulfilled? You bet. Working the grill became my pot of gold after six months of sweeping the lobby and emptying the grease traps. This was the big time.

My grill partner during most shifts was a jerkoff named Tom Courtenay. He was an arrogant, rosy-cheeked dick. The sort of guy who couldn't wait to join a frat and snap a towel at another dude's ass so he could laugh about it every time he got drunk.

Initially, I wanted to like Tom--because he seemed funny--but one night while whipping up a dozen Quarter Pounders, I caught him flipping me off behind my back. He must have felt threatened by the quiet, unassuming kid I was. That, and the fact that my muscle memory and quick reflexes made me a faster griller after one week than he'd become after an entire year.

This one evening, the overhead radio was tuned to a rock station, and the Kinks' "Lola" began.

Tom immediately popped a rod and began singing along with such exuberance that I thought he'd have a grabber and fall face first onto the sizzling grill.

I really wanted to see that, but Jesus disappointed me.

Instead, Tom amped it up and danced around the prep area. A female drive-thru cashier was walking past, and he took her hand and sashayed with her until she broke away, embarrassed.

He sang the lyrics--all of them--and once it faded out to Foreigner's "Waiting For A Girl Like You," he finally shut the hell up and sighed. He looked like he'd just beat off. His face was crimson and he was out of breath.

"Someday," he began, "someday, I'll meet my Lola."

"You do know that's a song about a transvestite, right?" I said, gripping the special sauce caulking gun in both hands.

Tom looked me square in the eyes, then at the gun, then back at me. He was angry and confused. It was as if I'd shot him with a special sauce bullet.

"What?" he spat.

"Lola's a dude, man."

"What?"

I went back to prepping burgers, talking back over my shoulder. "You were singing the lyrics yourself. What'd you think, 'I'm a man/ And so is Lola' meant, anyways?"

Tom stood there for an infinity, digesting what I'd said. He quietly went back to work, dropping frozen McChicken patties in the deep fryer. I could hear his tears plinking into the hot oil.

We never spoke again.

Years later, he married his frat brother Jaye.**

* I let my wife do that for me.
** Probably not true, but I needed a good ending.

Fanfic By Celebrities

When an average sports fan performs his own song about a favorite team, it comes across as the musical equivalent of fan fiction.

Fanfic is a frightening thing to stumble across on the Interweb. So frightening, in fact, that I don't even want to Google search or link to it.

You wanna lose faith in your fellow man right quick? Check how many sites are devoted to the erotic misadventures of superheroes in bondage. (Or don't. Just sleep well knowing they exist.) The concept is as mystifying as Jeremy Piven's hairline 20 years ago compared to now.

So when an accomplished musician pens his homage to a pro baseball team, why is that not seen as geeky?

I can easily see Eddie Vedder writing a song about playing Wiffleball with his childhood friends in the streets of Evanston, Illinois; a fond recollection of a cherished activity that didn't involve millionaire athletes and a brand name.

I just think geniuses like Vedder should be above celebrating a baseball franchise. It seems so anti-Vedder; so unlike the guy who campaigned against Ticketmaster.

And this isn't a Cubs vs. Sox thing. I'd think this was out of character if he were singing about Comiskey Park.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to chapter 37 of my "Willow Loves Tara Always" story.

Rider's Block Productions: Currently in Development, Part 1

Now that I took 20 whole minutes to put together a logo, I can officially announce the creation of Rider's Block Productions, Inc.

I tossed a few text messages back and forth with Dean Xene this morning, and we have the makings of a mid-season replacement show for Kath & Kim, which will be canceled by NBC brass 13 minutes into its first episode on October 9.

Our first production will be a sitcom featuring M. Emmet Walsh as a washed-up male prostitute who mentors his young gigolo roommate played by Jason Mewes. The working title is Flaccid Heights.

Each episode opens with Walsh preparing to bed a different elderly client, but--and here's the hook--he always fails to achieve an erection! Celebrity guests slated to appear as clients: Bea Arthur, Rue McClanahan, Cloris Leachman, and Kim Cattrall. Walsh will then deliver his trademark catchphrase: "Jay, get me my Viagra!"

If he agrees to the in-joke, Mewes will enter the room with a rubber tube tied around one bicep and call Walsh a different name each week. Example: "Get it yourself, you tubby bitch!" Cue the laugh track, roll the titles featuring Walsh and Mewes dancing together like the Cosby family to "Start the Commotion" by The Wiseguys.

Jason Mewes will play himself, but I'm soliciting names for Walsh's character in the comments.

As Long As You're Cleaning House, MTV...

Yesterday MTV announced that Total Request Live is being canceled.

I don't care. Neither should you. I only bring it up to ask the following:

Did you know John Norris still works at MTV? No. For real.

I was reading my new favorite pop culture blog,* and the writer skewered Norris for his "young person" fashion sense at the VMA Awards.

The post was funny with a bitter aftertaste of friggin' sad.

I'll put it into perspective.

Back in 2001 I worked for Best Buy. Many of my coworkers were high school kids. I was a supervisor overseeing three departments lousy with 'em.

Because I was older, because I was married, because I had a mortgage, a few of them regularly referred to me as "Old Man."

Fine. I got it. My scalp had sprouted, maybe, two gray hairs at the time. But I had full control over my bowels and I could still chew solid food. Tragically, neither are true today.

But despite the fact that I never treated these kids like kids, and even though I have the maturity of a 17-year-old, my forehead was stamped with Methuselah. (It probably started the day I pointed out how great a Beatles song was, and was told, "That's grandma music.") **

Now picture John Norris. Born in 1959 and working for a network whose demographic consists of 12-34 year-olds (socially retarded 34-year-olds, most likely). His Logan's Run palm crystal turned black almost three decades ago, yet he's still tottering down the halls of MTV, weeping over the demise of the show that belched out Carson Daly.

I wonder... Does he carry a notebook where he logs the new slang uttered by interns and skateboarding video directors? How seriously did he consider an eyebrow stud? Does he have an inside man at Buckle who gives him a heads-up on the latest Peruvian beanies and argyle hoodies?

There's a lesson here, folks.

Know when it's time to move on.

And Carson Daly is still more of a tool than John Norris.

* Thanks for the blog tip, McGone.
** In my defense, I was still considered young enough and/or cool enough to be invited to many parties. In some cases I was threated with bodily harm if I failed to appear. Not caring to reenact the party scene from Uncle Buck, I took my chances and stayed home.

Why I Haven't Blogged Much This Week

Regular readers of the Block know I'm unemployed and have nothing better to do than monitor the weak pulse of pop culture. It's not like I have a full-time job, right? So why have I been so slack with the posting and the blogging and the hoyvin-glayvin?*

I'll give you three reasons.

I haven't blogged because I've been watching TV.

Specifically Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles.

It's the show that asks the question, "Why would a shapely female robot from the future need three belts?"

You should be watching this series. The first season was cut short by the Writers Guild strike--reported regularly here for months on end--so the storyline was a little uneven and ended abruptly.

Why watch? Because Shirley Manson from Garbage is a new, recurring character. The jury's still out on how well she can act, but the opening minutes of the premiere features her cover of "Samson & Delilah." It's a perfect four-and-a-half-minute sequence without dialogue. Watch it here and tell me you were a fool not to watch season one.

I haven't blogged because I've been playing PS3.

Someone cute gave me a gift card and, since Best Buy doesn't sell unleaded gas or a Mr. Fusion, I blew it all on Guitar Hero III: Legends of Rock.

I was getting all full of myself, shredding along to "Mississippi Queen" and "Barracuda"...then that dick Tom Morello whipped my ass and prevented me from advancing to the next level.

He will be dealt with soon. I'll show him why my band is called "Smacky Justice."

I haven't blogged because I've been driving my clown car.

But first I had to find purple garland and plastic American flags made in China.

By the way, can anyone tell me what "dee-bag" means? Is it by any chance a slang term meaning "most awesome clown ever"? That's what everyone was yelling.

I am available for bar mitzvahs and corporate events.

* Say the last half of that sentence in a Professor Frink voice...you'll think I'm funnier than I actually am

Smacky

I want to write and direct a feature-length motion picture called Smacky: Enemy of the Cool. And it's all thanks to Lance Briggs of the Chicago Bears.

I was watching the local morning news today--'cuz I need something to do while eating my Frosted Strawberry Pop-Tarts and Miller Lite--when this pro football jerkoff sat down for an interview wearing big-ass sunglasses which he never removed.

I thought, Who does this guy think he is, P. Diddy?

My next thought was an odd one: I wish an angry midget would appear out of thin air and smack those goddamn glasses off his smug face.

That's the moment Smacky was born.

In the treatment I'm writing, Smacky is an impish demon, dressed in lederhosen, who answers the summons of anyone who chants the following:

Please, Smacky, slap this bitch
Please, Smacky, slap this bitch
Please, Smacky, slap this bitch

Smacky teleports in and viciously assaults anyone who acts cooler than they really are. He stands a mere three feet tall, but his hands are the size of those foam fingers you find at sporting events. He smacks his victims so hard they're nearly decapitated.

I don't have all the details worked out yet, but a few key images will be featured in the trailer, which I'll shoot before the movie actually goes into production.

• While in concert, John Mayer will shriek like a schoolgirl as he scoots backwards across the stage from an unseen assailant; in the audience, Jennifer Aniston will be smiling (having summoned Smacky herself!)
• In the process of saying, "You're fired," Donald Trump will be slapped by an unseen force so hard and so fast, that for a brief moment his face will actually look handsome (the colors will invert during a freeze frame of that moment, then fade to black)
  
• At the Republican National Convention, Sarah Palin's glasses will shoot through the torso of John McCain and embed themselves into a podium (with the standard foley sound of a tossed knife vibrating in wood)

I take PayPal if you'd like to invest in my film. I'll need to get Warwick Davis in the Smacky role, and he commands a huge salary. $150 million should cover it.

Note: For more slapping goodness, check out the first 30 seconds or so of this video from an Indian game show. Turn the sound down if you're at work, though, because five seconds into it, the hostess (I guess?) tells a contestant to eff off, in English, and that's when the fun begins. She slaps him, he slaps her back even harder, and it's only then he even realizes what's happening. As the stagehands kick the shit out of the guy, it's funny to hear him crying over and over, "How can she slap? How can she slap?" Because he's miked, you can hear him sobbing like a tired infant under his assailants' fists.

It's gold, Jerry, gold!

Asian Table-Puller

I wasn't tackled or forced into an interrogation room when I made my triumphant return into the local Panera this morning.

After months of exile, I decided it was high time I go back, catch up on entertainment news on my BlockBerry, and slam a cup of Bright and Balanced. If that's a crime, I offer my surrender. Just let me finish my pecan braid before letting Laurence Fishburne work me over.

But...nothing happened. No strange looks from the cashier, no glances over the shoulder for the shift manager with flour in her hair, nada. My crimes during the summer hiatus seem to have been swept under the rug. This must be how Snake Plissken felt after saving President Donald Pleasance from the Duke (who we all know is "A-number-1").

My relief was replaced by irritation, though, when another customer stole the table that was in front of my easy chair.

I was sitting there, minding my own business, right? (Eddie Murphy, 1982), when this chick sits in the chair across from me.

Fine, I think. You do that. I got the better chair, anyway. Enjoy the sun in your face, sweetheart. Shoulda thought of that before making such a poor decision. Meet my gaze and witness the happy dance behind my eyes! La la la, hm hm hm, I win again!

But then...

She leaned forward and, in slow motion, pulled the coffee table closer to her.

What. The. Holy. Hell.

That table was mine! I was here first! It's what I set my tray and used napkins on for the Hispanic busboy who resembles the "time to make the donuts" guy.

And no, I didn't need the damn thing, but that's a moot point. A shared table between two easy chairs should remain equidistant to both. Law of the land. Known fact.

She didn't even ask. That's the other issue. The rules of civilized society dictate you ask before taking. That gives the take-ee an opportunity to say, "Hells no!"

It doesn't matter I had earbuds in and was permanently damaging my hearing by listening to "Hot For Teacher" at full blast. She should've done more than gauge my reaction while pulling the table away from me. Mouth the words, "I'm taking this away from you now," or, "You weren't using this, bitch." Something.

And now it's hers and now I'm shooting my new Asian enemy the stink eye as she gnaws her fingernail and reads a book on gynecology and obstetrics that's resting on a smooth tabletop I couldve put my shoes up on.

I hate you, Asian table-puller.

Thanks for Contributing to My Cool, Sally

Cheech and Chong have reunited and are going on tour. I was introduced to their albums by my babysitter, Sally, and it occurred to me that I never thanked her.

I never had an older sibling to introduce me to important cultural milestones. I had to discover them on my own. For young Rider, there was no Zooey Deschanel leaning in close to tell me, "Someday, you'll be cool," and then handing me a suitcase full of rock albums to calibrate my compass.

Had he known, my old man would've been pissed to discover his 12-year-old was buying comedy albums celebrating drug use. He would've been even angrier to find freckle-faced Sally had been my comedy pusher.

I kept all that on the down low. I learned my lesson after he caught me walking in the door with Boston and began inspecting the track titles. ("'Hitch a Ride'...'Smokin''? You're not gonna do any of these things, are you?")*

Sally did her job well. I soon moved on to Richard Pryor and George Carlin and National Lampoon. (I occasionally slipped...spending money on Weird Al in a moment of weakness, for example.)

So here's my official thanks, Sally McLean. You may have dressed like a hippie, but you had two things that made up for it: you smelled better than a hippie and you had great taste in comedy.

* "Gaw, Dad, no! Jeez!"