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!"

In a World Where Jerry Reed Is Still Alive...

Now there's no one to sell the above phrase at the beginning of a movie trailer. Plus the premise is now fictional.

"You Eat Some Bad Mexican?"

The Fox network officially ushered in the 2008-2009 TV season tonight.

And not a moment too soon. The summer hiatus was killing me. Was I so starved for material I actually wrote about Phil Collins? And Second Life? And what was up with Panera Bread's Security Task Force looking for me at one point?

All I know is Prison Break is back and "better" than ever. The two-hour premiere hit the reset button once again, shaking up the status quo and delivering on the cheesy moments that caused lesser bloggers (with more readers) to bail out years ago.*

Come on, what other show gives you so many implausible yet enjoyable moments such as these (minor spoilers)?

• Michael Rapaport, cast against type, trying to play a hardass federal agent that doesn't sound like a punk in a high school's smoking area griping about being left back.
  
• That same federal agent (Rapaport!) pulling judicial strings to assemble a crew of convicted felons and fugitives to help take down a secret cabal of men who all look like Dick Cheney's retarded brother. Suicide Squad, anyone?
  
• An overnight laser tattoo removal session capable of erasing a full-torso plot point from season one. And you know it was painful because Wentworth Miller gritted his teeth. Twice.
• A fat Hispanic and a murderer/pedophile named T-Bag walk into the desert--not the set-up for a joke...or is it?--but only one walks out, looking nauseous. Which prompts his rescuer to ask the question in this post's title.

Groan.

Still, no other show on TV consistently delivers the goods. Or bads. Whichever.

* I guess some folks just can't suspend their disbelief as much as I. Or could it be they actually have lives beyond watching television? Nah...I refuse to believe McGone has better things to do than watch Prison Break. I can only suspend my disbelief so far.