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.