Rider's Block

Rider and Obama Vs. China

2009-06-18T22:17:00.005-05:00

What would it take to coax your ol' pal Rider out of blogging retirement? How about the sweet promise of a jaunty drive down to the local currency exchange where he'll convert billions and billions of yuan into a cool one hundred U.S. dollars?

Imagine how my eyes lit up tonight upon reading how a cell phone manufacturer ripped off a name I invented in a Photoshopped image of my very own smartphone over a year ago...then mentioned it again the next day in this post...then again a day later.

Seeing as how I've had my fair share of visitors to the Block from China--and since "Haff-Comm" is a Chinese company, I think I have a damn good shot at squeezing some crazy cash out of these copycats.

Now all I need for my lawsuit is to team up with someone with slightly more credibility than a lowly blogger. Someone who may have also been wronged in the ad. Perhaps a public figure whose image was appropriated without permission to hawk knockoff electronics.

Why, if I made enough money to actually retire, I'd have so much time on my hands I'd start blogging again.

Speaking of swipes, Rider asks that you not get him started on the similarity of this photo from his January 19, 2008 post, and the concept behind this T-shirt.

I Always Knew If I Went on Facebook...

2009-05-15T14:09:00.002-05:00

...that I'd blog less.

But don't give up on me, yet. I'll be back someday soon.

ShamOww!

2009-03-31T07:35:00.005-05:00

Click here to read the Rider's Block Twitter page regarding Vince Shlomi's altercation with an alleged call girl.

Sorry I Crashed Your Black Panther Party

2009-03-19T11:03:00.000-05:00

I'd heard excellent things about writer Christopher Priest's run on Black Panther back in 1998, but I didn't actually pay attention to the character until the series relaunched seven years later. I picked it up mainly because fan-favorite artist John Romita Jr. penciled the first arc, but also because writer Reginald Hudlin's take on the hero seemed intriguing.

Hudlin lost me shortly after J.R. took his leave. I forget the particulars; suffice it to say it was because of the writing, not the character.

My interest is renewed because of Marvel's Secret Invasion: Black Panther collection. At only three issues long, it's one of the shorter comic trades you'll find, but it managed to make me care about the character again.

There's something inherently right about an arrogant warrior-king who's always two steps ahead of the bad guys. This ain't your typical neurotic superhero fretting about where the money for his aunt's medication is coming from. He's an Oxford-educated physicist, an inventor, and a skilled military strategist. This cat (yeah I said it) rules an industrialized African country that's never been conquered by anyone. He's like Batman crossed with Tony Stark crossed with Dr. Doom. Who would dare mess with the guy--especially knowing he won't hesitate to run you through with his sword?

Aliens, it turns out.

Jason Aaron wrote this incredible tie-in to last year's Secret Invasion event. While the rest of the Marvel heroes had their asses handed to them by the invading Skrull armada, Black Panther formulated a plan before the green bastards even arrived in his kingdom of Wakanda.

They should've turned around as soon as they caught a glimpse of what the slack-jawed readers saw on page three.

It was a tight, action-packed read, and it left me wanting more. I'm going to order Christopher Priest's two trades from '98 for starters. (Come to think of it, that's all I can order since the rest of his run isn't collected.)

After Iron Man 2 and The Avengers, Rider would like to see Marvel Studios release a Black Panther movie. Just keep Hudlin away from the script and it could be great.

Rider Takes Public Transportation After Dark

2009-03-18T10:21:00.006-05:00

This review is leaving the station and will take a turn down a dark tunnel to Hell. Don't despair, though, because I'll let you off at an unusual bus stop. You might even thank me.

Clive Barker is one of my writing influences, and many of the movie adaptations of his work have also left their mark on my subconscious. Images from Nightbreed to Candyman have stuck with me through the years. Even as recently as yesterday I was reminded of my favorite Andrew Robinson quote from Hellraiser: "It's never enough."

The director of The Midnight Meat Train, Ryûhei Kitamura, apparently echoes Robinson's claim--except in this film he isn't talking about the human condition...he's talking about the liberal use of blood on a movie set.

The sheer amount of gore here is almost a wonder to behold. It's absolutely gruesome. Even without it, this movie grips you by the back of the neck and drags you screaming into the black abyss. This isn't a horror flick for the casual viewer.

Keep in mind I love that kind of thing. I cheered during the lawnmower scene in Peter Jackson's Braindead (or Dead Alive, as I knew it when it was released in the U.S.). But that's how I roll. Your mileage may vary.

Vinnie Jones plays a sinister heavy named Mahogany who waits patiently on a subway bench, Forrest (Ackerman) Gump-like, for the first train after 2:00 AM. And pity the poor soul who happens to share a car with him once he reaches into his large black bag and retrieves his silver tenderizing mallet.

Just like any great Barker story, Meat Train doesn't flinch from the necessity of an inevitable, bleak ending. And, brother, it is bleak. How much more bleak could it be? None. None more bleak.

In other commuter news, here's a cool scene from the upcoming Fox Searchlight movie (500) Days of Summer. I'd buy a year-long pass for that bus ride. Wouldn't you?

Last stop, Rider's Block Station. Mind the gap.

We here on the Block would also encourage interested parties to check out The Midnight Meat Train's special feature "Cliver Barker: The Man Behind The Myth." Rider has never felt like more of a lazy jerk than he did upon seeing the staggering number of paintings Barker has completed--keeping in mind the man started painting at the age of 45. This image shows you how many canvases he considers "failures." They're kept in a tent and referred to as "the planet of the fucked-up." And even some of those were painted over five times.

Battlestar Gateway-ica

2009-03-13T14:29:00.006-05:00

A preliminary note to Battlestar fanatics who stumbled upon this post while searching "Galactica kicks ass": This blog will only anger you. Stop reading now. Back-button and go away. You won't like what I'm about to say here in my little corner of the Innertubes.

If you read ahead anyway and are determined to label me a douche, allow me to take the wind out of your puffed-up chest right from the get-go by saying:

I'm an idiot. I write unentertaining things. Of the 200 posts I've published, none of my commenters has ever agreed with my ridonkulous positions on pop culture.

Buh-bye now.

Now--are my three regular readers still here?

Good.

This is for your eyes only:

Battlestar Galactica started out as a friggin' phenomenal show. Remember when I watched every episode, up through the second season, in an unemployment marathon screening one year ago? Remember how I said it was "truly one of the best examples of the science fiction genre, period"?

Well, it was.

It goddamn well was.

If someone offered me a kick in the nuts or free DVD copies of the first two seasons of Battlestar, guess which I'd choose?

But that's exactly where it stopped being unbelievably excellent and became...just slightly above average.

The show sputtered and flamed out halfway through the second season's last episode ("Lay Down Your Burdens"). No spoilers, but I'd thought that finale was just a dream. Then the third season picked up with that deflated turd of a twist, and I sat back on my couch with my head cocked to the side like a retarded Labrador and said, "Huh."

But I persisted. It was still better science fiction than Enterprise, and I watched that entire run with a vapid smile on my face. I plowed through the rest of the shows as they came out on DVD, finally catching up to the live ones just as the final season began. I enjoyed them enough to patiently wait out the mid-season hiatus, and, just as I was getting excited by the possible direction of the final ten installments...

...I just don't know what the point is anymore.

The series became anti-climactic 30 minutes into that premiere. Now it's literally crawling toward the finish line like Simon Pegg's character in Run Fatboy Run.

We're down to the last two episodes. One tonight. One next week.

I almost don't care to watch, though, because even if the producers manage to pull out of this screaming nose-dive with a fantastic finale, it doesn't make up for the fact that the series has become a shadow of what it promised to be. What's more, it's become a bad parody of itself.

Fer frak sake, I always accepted how much smoking and drinking was going on on that damn ship. I'm a liberal guy. I get it. When your civilization is wiped out and life sucks, one expects a few vices to surface. And they surfaced a lot. But last week Adama actually started toking weed.

I don't know how I expected the series to end, but I didn't think it would dovetail with the sensibilities of Pineapple Express or Half Baked.

I hear Adama's new first officer will be Tommy Chong.

Rider Watches Them, That's Who - Updated

2009-03-09T10:34:00.006-05:00

I'll be honest: there's no way for me to write an objective Watchmen movie review without mentioning the comic. I considered several different directions to take this review, and they all came full-circle back to the source material. (Kinda like the first and last panels of the actual mini-series...and if you don't get that reference, you should stop now.)

I read the individual issues as they first came out in 1986, and I knew from the beginning that I was experiencing something way beyond the cookie-cutter superhero comics I'd been buying up until that point. Important and complex things were happening. By the twelfth issue, I didn't exactly consider the series bona fide literature--but that was only because I hadn't realized that comics could be literature.

I reread the hardcover collection in the weeks leading up to the movie's premiere, and there's no doubt in my mind that Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons created a literary masterpiece. (I also listened to the entire series of Comic Geek Speak "Footnotes" podcasts recapping each issue, because I knew I'd missed themes and symbolism in the past. Those boys clued me in to stuff I hadn't even considered. Kudos to them.)

I wish I could tell you that if I weren't the comic book fan I am, that I would've loved the movie anyway. I wish I could, but it's impossible to be sure. At the bare minimum it succeeds in depicting an alternate world on the brink of nuclear Armageddon, populated by a handful of impotent heroes forced into retirement and/or employed as weapons by the military. The plot poses the mystery of who would eliminate these castrated heroes and why, then asks us to judge a Big Bad who uses a proverbial sword on a Gordian Knot in order to change everything. Going by a "this tale hasn't been told on film yet" level alone, it delivered the goods.

Zack Snyder compressed a lot of storytelling into his film, but it didn't feel like overkill. I summarily dismiss other critics' claims that he was a slave to the adaptation. It's nonsense. As much respect as I have for Gibbons' art, I wouldn't necessarily call his work dynamic. Snyder's visuals on this movie were dynamic; almost breathtaking at times. He lifted many panels from the comic, but you're an idiot if you didn't expect him to. He owned the look of this reality (only David Fincher could have done it better).

Snyder took liberties with a few plot elements, and many fans have, in turn, taken issue with those fixes. (The poor guy simply can't win...should he change shit or shouldn't he?) I can confirm that the ratio of what he left to what he noticeably changed is about 10 to 1. But the things he did tweak were necessary to the believability of the story. There are a lot more folks who'll see this movie that didn't read the comic than those who did, and they're not gonna notice a change in tone or sense something was deleted. And those of us who realize movies and sequential art are two intrinsically different art forms--and that some things simply don't translate well--just won't care. (Follow this minor spoiler footnote for the three "big" differences I noticed...and why they still don't change the tone of the film.*)

Watchmen was almost three hours long. Snyder took his time and paced it out. He let it breathe and didn't rush it. He loosely stuck to Moore's already loose two-issue-per-character exploration, but I could've gotten to know the characters even more--especially Rorschach and Silk Spectre II (the former being my favorite, and because the latter didn't have a real origin). None of the heroes were slighted, mind you, but I honestly wanted a longer movie.

I hear there's a director's cut in the works. That's a must-own. I'll strip naked and cover myself in blue paint while watching it.

What? That's what I did while reading it.

Note: I'll award a Rider's Block no-prize to the first commenter who tells me where Zack Snyder worked a 300 reference into Watchmen.

* Rorschach takes a more hands-on approach to dispatching a child killer than he did in the comic. So the hell what? It made his origin story all the more shocking.

In the comic, Dr. Manhattan is the only hero with actual powers, but in the movie the others are throwing thugs across rooms and breaking walls with their fists. This was probably done to appease mainstream audiences who need to see snapping bones in their R-rated action movies, along with comic fans who didn't "get" the subtle tone of the original story. I was cool with it, and I especially liked that the bad guy took a few licks...he needed to.

There's no space squid in the movie, and I don't care. I always thought that was the most outlandish element in Moore's plot. Snyder's change actually makes sense, and improves the story without altering the tone. The doomsday clock is stopped and gives a terrified world a chance to reflect and give peace a chance. Whether it's accomplished due to a psychic blast or [the movie's alternative], the outcome was never certain and ultimately open to interpretation.

Regarding Dolls and Escapism

2009-03-02T13:52:00.008-06:00

I've only got two things to write about this afternoon, but the real reason for this post is to let you know I'm still sucking air and haven't abandoned the Block (or my Blogger duties).

First off, you should be watching Dollhouse on Fox. I'm as big a Joss Whedon fan as one can be without building a shrine and sacrificing farm animals, and I'm here to tell you: the man creates better episodic TV than anyone--including J.J. Abrams.

(I tried watching Fringe. I tried really hard. I even held my thumb over Joshua Jackson's face whenever it appeared onscreen to diminish the lameness he brought to the series. But you know what was missing from Fringe? That special Whedon touch.*)

I've heard fair-weather critics express doubt over what Whedon is doing in his latest production; that Dollhouse's premise is shaky and flies in the face of the strong-female-lead work he's done in the past. Because that's what it seems like with--what?--three episodes in the can.

But to those folks, I'll humbly point out that Mr. Whedon has always been a dude who writes toward an ending. He's got an entire mythology mapped out, and after seven seasons of Buffy and five of Angel, you should be ashamed of yourself if you think there's not more going on in the D-house than just hot babes serving as escorts.

I see the seeds being planted, and each episode has been better than the last. Were I the speculatin' type, I'd say we're witnessing Eliza Dushku's "Echo" about to go rogue from her mind-wiping overlords, and the show's premise will actually center around her bringing the Dollhouse down.

Watch last week's episode, "Stage Fright," over on Hulu, and tell me how it compared to any other hour-long drama you've been a slave to. Watch it for no other reason than to see what Echo does to an arrogant pop star with a folding chair. (I watched that scene three times, wishing the same for Beyoncé.)

The second reason for today's post is to let you know that my habits have changed recently. I'm gonna use a Revolutionary Road analogy to explain.

I like DiCaprio. I like Winslet. I like Mendes. But it'll be a cold day in hell when you catch me wasting my time on Revolutionary Road. I watch movies and read comics because of the escapism factor.

The world is a scary place right now. I know people who have lost--or are threatened with losing--their entire careers in the worst economic climate in a long time.

The day I choose to watch a movie about two beautiful people whining about their "horrible" jobs and abandoned dreams, rather than popping in Hellboy II on DVD, is a sad goddamn day indeed. (Perhaps one day I'll make an exception and watch Revolutionary Road and United 93 and maybe a little Old Yeller. Then I'll take a candlelit bath and pop in Pink Floyd The Wall on the CD player. Sure. I'll be just fine.)

That's a very long way of saying that I've been reading and writing other stuff. Escapist stuff. I'm still committed to the Block, of course. More than likely, what you'll see popping up here in the future will be movie and book reviews. (Possibly on deck in the weeks ahead: The Midnight Meat Train and Watchmen.)

If you've been paying attention these past few months, you've already been clued in on where to find my other projects.

If you haven't been paying attention, may I suggest a Joshua Jackson film marathon. Anything from 1998 to 2005, keeping in mind he peaked with Cursed.

* For example, Whedon would've killed off Josh Jackson within six episodes--just for the shock value. And he would've done it in a particularly nasty way that would've made me scream, "Take that! Fuckin' Pacey sack of shit!"

Wells on Mood Pockets: Who Will Review the Reviewer?™

2009-02-09T10:01:00.014-06:00

Imagine you're a writer and someone flies you to another town to appear in a discussion panel. They put you up in a hotel, but the ethernet cable in the room is too short and the connection is not "strong enough." So you inform the organizers of the event that you're upset and don't want to fulfill your obligation...and you leave.

Then you blame them on your web site for not snapping you out of your funk. You also liken the lack of Wi-Fi to "the four horsemen of the apocalypse... circling and going for the kill."

That's the stunt Jeffrey Wells pulled on the Oxford Film Festival this past weekend.

Oh, he had a grand time sight-seeing before the world turned to shit and spit in his face, having visited Graceland and Sun Records on his way to Mississippi. He even stayed overnight in the Internet-challenged Oxford Downtown Inn, knowing full well he was cut off from The Cloud. How he must have tossed and turned that night! He'd heard there was a funny YouTube video of a boy tripping on painkillers, but he couldn't access it without walking all the way down to the lobby! And no way was that gonna happen!

He was, in his words, in a "mood pocket." That's sort of like a Hot Pocket, but with swirling, debilitating emotions instead of rancid lava-meat. He was cut off from his post-1999 safe zone where immediate wireless Internet is a necessity to do one's job and his balls are lovingly massaged by 802.11 digital spectrum fingers at all times.

Reading his responses to comments on that last blog post, everyone's to blame for Wells' hissy fit--including his AT&T broadband card which doesn't always work even though he pays $60 a month for it. Boo hoo hoo. Time to switch to VerizAlltell, Jeffrey?

The last time someone overreacted like this, he had running mascara and was imploring us to "leave Britney alone."

Read the controversial Who Will Review the Reviewer™ debut post here, wherein Rider takes a Pulitzer Prize-winning film critic to task for phoning in a movie review.

Hail to the King, Baby

2009-02-04T19:20:00.005-06:00

If you're a multi-millionaire author like Stephen King and you rip another writer's work, there's a risk of coming across as a mean old bully. I mean, you don't see Tom Hanks criticizing Drew Barrymore's limited acting range (although that'd be awesome).

But since King is one of my influences, and since he recently went after two best-selling authors whose work I despise, I applaud the balls it took for him to speak his mind.

No one who reads Stephenie Meyers' weak take on vampires is gonna be swayed by anything I write here in my little corner of the Innertubes, but maybe they'll take a card-carrying horror master's word for it.

The same goes for fans of James Patterson, whom I recently credited with pinching out such a steaming pile of literary excrement that it made me realize I'm already a better writer than he or his collaborators could ever hope to be.

Put 'em in their place, Unca Steve. I got your back.

Rider's One Positive Thing Review of Tooth & Nail

2009-02-03T15:29:00.007-06:00

One Positive Thing is a series of reviews wherein Rider savagely pans a lame-ass flick but, because he's normally an optimistic individual, still finds one good thing to say about it...'cuz his momma raised him right.

I don't remember putting this DVD on my Netflix queue, but it showed up in my mailbox anyway. It's the rental equivalent of a boring stranger accidentally receiving an Evite to your Superbowl party and then actually showing up. You don't want to talk to him because he's saying shit you've heard a million times before, but his girlfriend is sort of hot so you let him eat some Tostitos.

Tooth & Nail is what you get when a filmmaker has only two things going for him: A) access to one cool location, and B) Michael Madsen's phone number. Seeing as how 80% of this movie takes place in an abandoned hospital, and that Madsen co-produced and "starred," Mark Young couldn't have shot his vision of an apocalyptic future without either one.

I knew T & N was gonna have major issues when the title credits ended with "Written, Directed, and Edited by." That's not the order you're supposed to list 'em in, right? Unless you're pulling a Robert Rodriguez and going with "Shot and Cut." But wouldn't that require resigning from the Directors Guild? (Mr. Young, please take note.)

We are introduced to two factions of survivors: the Foragers, led by a bewhiskered Robert Carradine, and the Rovers, a band of Road Warrior-lite cannibals headed up by Madsen. Imagine the much scarier Reavers from Firefly, except their leader chases you while whistling "I've Been Working on the Railroad," and they announce their arrival by blowing a trumpet.

No. It happened. More than once.

All logic goes out the window when the voice-over reveals that society didn't end because of disease or war, but rather because, "the world just ran out of gas."

Really? All those charred bodies sitting behind the wheels of abandoned vehicles during the opening sequence were the result of folks simply running out of fuel on a Jimmy John's run during a fucking energy crisis? And if that were the case, why are the main characters shacked up in a hospital rather than their own homes?

What is it about an apocalypse that makes folks go from one place of safety to an unfamiliar, unsafe location to chill with strangers? It can't be for the security, because even with bloodthirsty cannibals roaming around, it never occurs to anyone to secure the hospital's doors once bodies start piling up. It's almost as if Young decided to depict a good-natured End of Days on the outskirts of Mayberry where honest folk leave their doors unlocked while they're getting a slice of pie down t' the diner.

Another pertinent question: if you were struggling to survive after the breakdown of civilization, what reason would you have for changing your goddamned name? And presuming you had one, would you change it to reflect an industry that caused the end of the world? Here are some of the Foragers' names, and I'm not messing with you: "Ford," "Viper," "Torino," "Nova," and featuring Rachel Miner as "Neon."

Don't get me started on the cannibals' names. They have their own motif: an oddly non-threatening Vinnie Jones is "Mongrel," and there's also "Jackal," "Shepherd," "Wolf," and "Badass." (The latter clearly not getting it.)

The actors try to do what they can with what they're given, but the guy who played The Jerk Security Guard in Dawn of the Dead is relegated to disappearing early on for a non-surprising reappearance later (I'd say "spoiler" if it mattered, which it don't), and the rest of the Foragers exist to show off clothing in the director's apparent attempt to do a cross-promotion with Eddie Bauer.

There are so many unsettling leaps in human behavior that we're asked to swallow that it's impossible to reconcile them. At one point a female character who hated one guy earlier, says to him, "You shaved your face. I like it." Then she kisses him, pissing all over the memory of the man she'd been sleeping with two days earlier who tragically ended up on a spit.

The best thing I can say about Tooth & Nail: Nicole DuPort has a nice head of hair. In my above Superbowl party scenario, she's the girlfriend.

Rider's opinions are fully those of Rider's Block Enterprises. Keep in mind he doesn't personally know Michael Madsen or any other actor whose only solid work was done with Quentin Tarantino, and he doesn't have a feature film of his own to prove he knows his shit.

Rider Reimagines Monkey Shines

2009-01-13T14:50:00.000-06:00

Alternate title: Proof I Can Write About George A. Romero Movies Without Lapsing Into Zombie-speak

I caught Romero's 1988 flick Monkey Shines on IFC last night (for the first time since its video release) and it didn't disappoint. It had all the elements of a perfect film: quadriplegic sex, a killer monkey wielding matches and syringes, and John Pankow's enormous forehead.

But deep down inside my wooden cranium I wondered how it could be better. How could it be updated with current celebrities and state-of-the-art FX to really make that monkey shine?

For starters, I'd put Jason Statham in the wheelchair. He'd still be the quadriplegic hero who uses a mouth-tube to roll around his house, but I'd set the film in a future where he telepathically controls a pair of hologram arms for getting dressed. That way, when Yakuza cyborg-ninjas attack, Statham's "holarms" can defend him with a twisted-up shirt. Besides, his contract stipulates that clothing be used as a weapon in at least one scene.

Ella, the helper monkey who both loves and taunts him, will be played by Dakota Fanning. I'll use Lord of the Rings-like forced perspective and camera tricks to make her appear 18 inches tall. Nothing will make the audience cheer more than when Statham seizes little Dakota's neck with his teeth and chokes the life out of her as she gibbers and screeches. Fanning doesn't do her own stunts, so we'd have to use a Monchichi stand-in.

I'll change the epilogue to bring the Statham legend full circle: after his character's spinal surgery is a success, his girlfriend picks him up at the hospital (she's played by Angelina Jolie's CG doppelgänger in Beowulf but voiced by Doc Hammer as "Dr. Girlfriend"). She's driving a black Audi A8 or a BMW--depending on who offers more for product placement. It seems they're going to move to France, and he's going to call himself...Frank Martin! Never mind that it's set in 2021 and The Transporter took place in '02. It's Statham. Why question it?

After the credits roll, we'll fade back in on a rural Pennsylvania farmhouse, and a voice on the radio will say, "The dead are rising from their graves and eating the flesh of the living."

D'oh!

What a Cox, Singular

2009-01-09T15:56:00.005-06:00

Something about Jay Mohr has always bugged me--but I can't quite pin it down.

You're familiar with Mohr, right? He's the star of CBS' Gary Unmarried, and achieved Hollywood C-list status in 1997 as Jerry Maguire's douchebag boss "Bob Sugar."

Me, I always think of him as the marginal talent from SNL who did the Walken impression. I refuse to give him more credit than that.

(It's possible something about his hair or his grin reminds me of Bad Things From My Childhood. I don't want to dwell on his appearance any further than acknowledging that Mohr possesses the demeanor of Polish bullies from my suburban Chicago neighborhood who smirked the same way while punching my ballsack.)

Regardless, I now have an additional reason to dismiss this bland, mildly irritating celebutard.

A few weeks ago he flew his true limp-dick colors by legally changing his name.

Have you ever known a guy who took his wife's name? A "man" so deluded he metaphorically spit on his family's heritage, cut his crank off, put it in a locked box, and handed the key to his controlling bride? Is there any reason to ever do that...unless your surname was "Hitler"?

To his credit, Mohr didn't quite do that, either--although he did take the last name of his wife, Nikki Cox, and became Jon Ferguson Cox Mohr.

He didn't even have the stones of a Johnny Depp tattooing "Winona Forever" on his skin. His grand, sweeping, romantic statement was to file paperwork to add three letters to a full name he'll never actually say out loud except at Cox family gatherings and only then to make women in attendance moan, "Aaaww."

You might argue my point and say, "That's a smart move: if they ever divorce he can just change it back. Ink is forever."

That's a perfectly valid point. But a real man shouldn't take his wife's name at all.

Remember when Nikki Cox was going out with Bobcat Goldthwait? Can you imagine what he'd say at the suggestion he take her name? He'd let out a spastic shriek and say, "Fffuck n-no!"

In summary, I respect Bobcat more than Cox Mohr.

Operation: Oh No

2009-01-01T23:59:00.003-06:00

"Happy 2009," he said to a man who wasn't there. He scurried away from the terminal, his humorless cackle echoing through the dark room.

It had been an hour since his wife had gone to bed. An hour since the new year had begun. An hour since he'd embarked on "Operation: Oh No."

The mission was proceeding better than expected. The pockets of his robe were already full, and he had begun loading more pilfered booty into his pajamas. They made a pleasant plastic-y grinding sound as he exited the east wing, as if his bed clothes were lined with LEGO blocks.

He gripped a nail file in one sweaty fist. The handle read "Revlon," but it may as well have read "Mjolnir," as, verily, it infused him with the power of a Norse god on this glorious quest.

He silently entered the pitch-black Palm Room, and spied another nearby computer terminal. No sooner had he begun to jab at the keyboard, than a creepy, impossibly loud whisper emanated from the darkness.

"What are you doing, George?"

"Whozat?!" he cried, leaping away from the computer. His nail file was lodged vertically in the keyboard. "Oh, Dick, it's just you."

The newcomer's grin--a frightening smirk, really--materialized out of the darkness like that of a fucked-up Cheshire Cat. He spoke in a whisper, but his lips didn't move. "Are you doing what I think you are?"

George patted his robe, the plastic bulge crunching. He turned back to the keyboard. "I'm'a give 'em a taste of their own medicine."

"I know it bothered you at the time, George, but the liberals will just say you copied Clin--"

"I couldn't type my middle initial for days, Dick," George said, popping the "O" key off and sliding it into his elephant pajama bottoms. "This'll learn 'em. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a lot of work to do in the Press Corps Office next door."

He felt a cold hand fall on his shoulder. It made him shiver. His balls tightened. "19 more days, George. You're jumping the gun."

"But-but we can do without that letter till then, Dick," he whined. "I wanna crawl in bed next to Laura tonight and tell her 'Mission accomplished.'"

"Prematurely?" asked the whisper.

"Aw, come on, Dick! I don't wanna put 'em all back!"

"I'm not saying you have to put them back...just leave the ones in the Oval Office."

George squinted, thinking. And thinking. And thinking some more. "Oh, right. I'll need it to pardon Scooter."

"And don't forget that 'surprise' involving bin Laden's 'capture' in two weeks."

George smiled at the horrible floating grin in the dark. "How could I forget?"

He went to the door, eager to continue his quest. When he turned to say good night, the floating grin was gone.

"Happy New Year," he said, this time to an empty room.

Rider wishes his readers a prosperous 2009. Here's hoping it's better than '08 and the previous eight.

Don't Hate Me, Mitch

2008-12-15T10:10:00.006-06:00

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

2008-12-04T13:30:00.007-06:00

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!"

2008-12-02T13:43:00.002-06:00

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)

2008-12-01T06:54:00.010-06:00

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

2008-11-25T06:47:00.006-06:00

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

2008-11-24T07:01:00.003-06:00

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)

2008-11-21T11:32:00.001-06:00

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

2008-11-20T16:28:00.002-06:00

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

2008-11-19T07:00:00.001-06:00

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

2008-11-17T09:06:00.007-06:00

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?

2008-11-16T21:00:00.005-06:00

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?

2008-11-16T08:39:00.003-06:00

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

2008-11-14T13:31:00.005-06:00

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

2008-11-13T10:52:00.003-06:00

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

2008-11-12T03:33:00.005-06:00

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*

2008-11-11T18:42:00.007-06:00

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

2008-11-11T17:02:00.001-06:00

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

2008-11-10T15:55:00.006-06:00

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

2008-11-07T10:06:00.005-06:00

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

2008-11-06T23:55:00.002-06:00

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

2008-11-06T11:15:00.005-06:00

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?

2008-11-05T15:48:00.005-06:00

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

2008-11-05T09:26:00.005-06:00

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...

2008-11-04T23:26:00.003-06:00

...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

2008-11-02T23:21:00.002-06:00

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

2008-10-31T17:35:00.005-05:00

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

2008-10-30T10:33:00.004-05:00

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?

2008-10-29T06:41:00.009-05:00

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

2008-10-28T14:03:00.001-05:00

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.
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Text About Country Music

2008-10-28T08:42:00.003-05:00

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

2008-10-27T13:32:00.004-05:00

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

2008-10-26T17:40:00.005-05:00

Potential band name: "Sarah Going Rogue"

Busted For Virtually Nothing

2008-10-24T13:06:00.004-05:00

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"

2008-10-24T13:05:00.006-05:00

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

2008-10-23T15:55:00.005-05:00

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

2008-10-22T12:01:00.010-05:00

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

2008-10-21T15:51:00.007-05:00

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

2008-10-20T07:15:00.003-05:00

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

2008-10-19T08:07:00.004-05:00

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?

2008-10-18T22:28:00.001-05:00

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:

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.
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.
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

2008-10-17T06:33:00.004-05:00

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

2008-10-16T06:00:00.002-05:00

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

2008-10-13T09:00:00.003-05:00

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?"

2008-10-10T14:15:00.000-05:00

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

2008-10-06T23:05:00.006-05:00

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

2008-09-29T08:26:00.004-05:00

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

2008-09-27T18:54:00.002-05:00

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

2008-09-23T14:17:00.006-05:00

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

2008-09-22T06:44:00.009-05:00

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

2008-09-19T08:44:00.009-05:00

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...

2008-09-16T13:47:00.007-05:00

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

2008-09-12T11:53:00.005-05:00

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

2008-09-09T13:07:00.005-05:00

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

2008-09-05T11:33:00.005-05:00

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

2008-09-03T20:17:00.000-05:00

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...

2008-09-02T14:59:00.004-05:00

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?"

2008-09-01T23:59:00.006-05:00

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.

Comcast-ick*

2008-08-31T17:00:00.000-05:00

Hypothetical scenario: If a guy from ComEd ordered you to marry your ex or he would cut the power to your home...would you play along?

Imagine paying upwards of 100 clams a month, then some grinning jamoke shows up on your front porch and says, "You can keep your precious electricity--but only if you marry that loser ex-husband!"

That's an idiotic premise, isn't it? That a woman in that situation wouldn't just slam the door and say, "Whatever, jackass." It's not just me, right? Please tell me I'm not missing something in this latest round of dipshit commercials spewing forth from Comcast's marketing brain trust.

Most folks know Comcast has a reputation for having the worst customer service of any company or agency in existence--scoring even lower than the IRS!--but their lame TV ads are like a vicious kick to my brain's nutsack.

In what fever dream does an individual participate in a scenario where they're put on stage and told to choose between getting tackled by Brian Urlacher or having their cable service discontinued?

And what's their (unstated) prize? To keep paying $45 a month for the same service their competitors charge $25 for? That's some upside!

I switched from Comcast to AT&T earlier this year. The only change I noticed was a two-second delay while waiting for YouTube videos to buffer. That gives me a much-needed moment to reflect on why I'm even compelled to watch a monkey bathe in a sink.

"People will do anything to keep their Comcast"?

Not the ones with principles.

* I like that, upon researching the "comcastic" slogan, I found 13 definitions in the Urban Dictionary and they were all negative.

Social Network, You Shall Not

2008-08-26T13:00:00.007-05:00

Hiroko Yoda, a Japanese author/translator, was denied a Facebook profile because she shares a last name with a fictional Jedi Master...all because George Lucas' character is on a list of blocked names.

It's sad when a person wants to use their real name on the Interwebs but can't.*

Yet it's funny that one can create a profile for George Lucas-Douche in mere minutes--complete with a portrait drawn with a Sharpie.

Check it out while you can. The Lucas-bots up at Skywalker Ranch's legal department are scrambling.

"Stay on target! Stay on target!"

UPDATE: As you may have noticed, I eventually changed George's Facebook profile to my own. You'll have to trust me that it was awesome while it lasted.

* Or when they get fired for doing so and can't use their real name ever again (*wink*)

Last Blogger Standing

2008-08-25T09:41:00.009-05:00

"Where the hell's Rider?"

I heard your bitching.

If you must know, I slipped into the pop culture equivalent of a coma. With the TV season still weeks away, I resorted to renting V: The Original Miniseries and playing Donkey Kong (only 500 Wii points* on the Wii Shop Channel!)

It was like 1983 all over again, minus the low self-esteem and inescapable Fixx songs.

On the bright side, I finished reading the final collection of the Y: The Last Man series from Vertigo/DC Comics.

If you haven't read it, Brian K. Vaughan and Pia Guerra crafted a superb 60-issue story about a mysterious plague that wiped out every individual on the planet with a Y chromosome. Only one man, Yorick Brown, survived the "gendercide."

It's a fascinating read and impossible to put down. Vaughan delves into the way society would change with women running everything from governments to the entertainment industry to black ops.

The only thing he doesn't explore is how the blogosphere would change...which got me thinking.

If a plague killed off every blogger on the planet except me, it'd be interesting to see exactly who would be left. Many questions and suspicions about the identities of my online friends would be confirmed by the sheer number of blogs with no new entries.

For example, I've met Slinger and McGone and I know they are fine, upstanding representations of the human male (the latter proving it by not wearing Crocs, but that's beside the point).

But who out there is actually a man writing as a woman (or vice versa)?

And how else would the Interwebs change without guys?

Please post your guesses in the comments section.

And ladies, hug a man today. The world would suck without us.
* That's five bucks to you, you non-Wii-playin' loser!

Hal's First Cheeseburger

2008-08-20T11:00:00.008-05:00

Attention Google Reader users: I know you think you saw a post appear on this blog with the above title, but it's actually over here. Another blog entirely. Never mind me. I'm a dumbass.

Advice to Collins

2008-08-18T09:55:00.006-05:00

Phil Collins just gave ex-wife numero tres a $46-million payout in their divorce. That's more than McCartney gave Mills and she's down a limb.

After three divorces, he's lost 84 million of his $280,000,000 fortune.

My suggestion: rather than lose all your cash by the tenth divorce, Phil, give it to PETA now. Help them with their battle against KFC. Jeezum Crow--think how many beakless birds you could've saved already! Those autographed drumsticks you donated in 2005 didn't help as much as millions of sussudio dollars would.

FUN FACT: Collins notified his second wife of their divorce via fax

Phelps Blog Reaction #865,000

2008-08-17T07:50:00.008-05:00

I didn't want to write about Michael Phelps' eighth gold medal win in the Beijing Summer Olympics, but I've been told I have to.

Dear Mr. Rider,

Please be advised that Blogger's Terms of Service (specifically, section 8.6's "Content in the Services") indicates the following: "You agree that you will blog about matters of national pride as exemplified by athletes, politicians, celebrities, etc., etc...up to and including prop comedians. Failure to do so may result in deletion of your blog."

We here at Blogger have noticed it has been 12 hours since U.S. swimmer Michael Phelps set a new world record, yet you have failed to post any content related to your feelings regarding his achievement.

We do not want to delete your blog. It is mildly amusing and fills a niche among popular culture blogs written by folks with differently-shaped heads made of wood.

If I may suggest a topic: speculate on the size of Phelps' "johnson." But do it from a heterosexual male's perspective. We here at Blogger love the dick jokes.

Get with the program or join the jamokes over at Wordpress.

Best Wishes, Phineas T. Blogspot
Founder and CEO of Blogger

Alright, already...but let the record show I'm writing this under duress.

I was watching last night's relay race, but only because Mrs. Rider didn't want to watch Ruins with me. (Apparently "horror" movies make her "scared" and she doesn't like feelings of "dread.")

I'll say this: it was pretty cool watching history being made.

Michael Phelps represented his country on the world stage, kicked ass, and instilled feelings of American pride that we'll all be talking about for years to come.

It's Wheaties boxes and Speedo endorsement deals for Phelps from here on out. In 30 years he'll have replaced Chuck Norris as a pitchman for exercise equipment. And good for him; he deserves it.

The truth is, I appreciate him for no other reason than we've needed someone to rally behind for the last seven years.

I hope this fulfills my obligation.

Side note: As cool as Phelps' win was, I actually had more of a patriotic reaction from this comic book page. Keep in mind it came out around 2002.

Rider's Clone Wars Review

2008-08-12T14:09:00.011-05:00

I attended an early screening of the new animated Star Wars movie, and I knew about the embargo on published reviews until the day of the film's release. But now that Warner Brothers forced Harry Knowles to remove his negative review, I'm gonna tempt fate. Come get me, you bastards.

George Lucas has never made a bad movie in his entire career. He has stayed true to his own vision, while simultaneously pleasing die-hard fans whose imaginations were kick-started by his creative genius.

Still, Star Wars: The Clone Wars stunk like Oprah's septic tank in 120-degree heat. It was full of gaffes, strange plot twists, and odd choices, beginning with the new Lucasfilm logo: a unicorn with a pink lightsaber horn. Then things got worse.

A JEDI TALKS NOT THIS WAY: Yoda (pictured) uttering the phrase "Can o' whup-ass"

The opening musical number seemed out of place. "Winchester Cathedral"? Really? Director Dave Filoni didn't stop there with questionable music from our world appearing in a far away galaxy. At one point Jar Jar came out of the closet and played "I Will Survive" on the kazoo while roller-blading in biker shorts. He's gay, yes, but come on.

How could Admiral Adama and the crew of the Galactica appear and join the conflict against the Jedis? That's an entirely different franchise. And why was everyone pantsless? Did they really have to include CG rendering of Edward James Olmos' acne pockmarks...then explain them as midi-chlorians gone awry?

Technical glitches and product placement plagued the entire production. At one point Senator Palpatine was inexplicably replaced by the squirrel from Ice Age who suddenly threw an acorn at Shrek-Wan Kenobi. Then he hoisted a can of Pepsi and launched into a monologue about Cool Ranch Doritos. "They will be my downfall," he cackled, loosening his belt another notch.

I also didn't understand why the producers chose America Ferrera to provide Yoda's voice.

Spoiler: Stay through the end credits. Lucas teases the final title of the upcoming TV series. (Clone Wars: Anakin at 15.)

No Virtual Cuddling

2008-08-11T00:01:00.004-05:00

There's nothing good on TV. I've been teased by promos for fall shows, but we all know the good stuff won't air until late September.

Right now it's all jocks in China and I couldn't care less.

(Note to self: First track off my new album Jocks in China should be "I Couldn't Care Less.")

Where do I turn for my entertainment fix in the meantime? I'm tired of playing "Magnifying Death Ray" with insects.

As if answering my fist-shaking challenge to Mount Olympus, I received this intriguing email.

"Bearacb Darkstone has offered you 'Shakira Night Invite w/cuddle rug' in Second Life. Log in to accept or decline the offer."

I'd almost forgotten that I had joined the online Second Life community a few years back.* I hung out there long enough to discover a few things before bailing:

1. I like who I am, so my avatar looks just like me. But other people's avatars were giant floating penises with penises for arms and a huge eye for a penis. Or they were nude albino elves with machine gun limbs.

2. Just like in real life, I avoided interacting with strangers. In either reality I prefer watching the freakshow from the sidelines.

But out of perverse curiosity, I wanted to find out what a Shakira Night Invite w/ a cuddle rug could possibly be. My Google search was fruitless.

Did you mean: Shakira Night Invite we/cuddle rug

"No, silly Google-bot," I said out loud, "that's not what I meant--and how does that make any more sense?"

I don't want to visit Second Life to find out. That's like giving in--on so many levels. Besides, what if Bearacb Darkstone is a scary dude waiting for me there? It's possible cuddle rug is ironic Second Life slang for something sinister. The Sea Bass/bathroom stall scene in Dumb and Dumber might have been funny for most, but in terms of sheer terror, in my mind, it ranks right up there with Ned Beatty in his tighty-whities silently gathering his clothes. I don't want to be man-handled, is what I'm saying. Even virtually.

I just want to know what a Shakira Night Invite w/cuddle rug is, fer cry eye.

And I wouldn't care about any of this if my favorite shows were back on. This summer hiatus is killing me.

* As the Dwight Schrute line goes, "Back then my life was so great I literally wanted a second one." Click here for the clip before NBC legal yanks it. (Those last four words could be graffiti in a men's room at 30 Rockefeller Plaza, come to think of it.)

Frightened By Fred

2008-08-10T23:59:00.004-05:00

Oh, Smitty, You Will Scream Like a Bitch!

2008-08-07T07:58:00.008-05:00

I'm going to rush through this post, but there's a good reason: I need your suggestions and time is short.

I watch a lot of TV. Some might say too much. From Friends reruns to zombie movies to my afternoon telenovelas, I'm viewing satellite goodness 23 hours a day.

I have a 137.9" Samsung DLP, pictured here next to a one-armed midget wrestler.

It turns out the average life of a DLP lamp is 5,000 hours.

I burned that puppy to a smoking cinder after only 18 months.

Fortunately I had purchased a service plan from a certain Big Box electronics retailer, so I called the 888 line for a service call. The repair guy is on his way to the Block as I type this.

I want to play a joke on him. Here's where I need your help.

I want to put something in the TV's service hatch to shock or startle the unsuspecting repairman.

Imagine the look of surprise when "Smitty"--as I will repeatedly call him even after he offers his real name--unscrews the plastic door and sees...

...What?

What should I stick in the compartment?

Here are the items I'm considering.

A tin foil robot, a can of Green Giant Niblets, a half-eaten Peep, and a live gecko.

I'm not sure if I want to go with humor or sheer terror--what if Smitty has a grabber? I don't own a shovel and, besides, the neighbors would see me digging the hole.

Please offer your suggestions in the comments. Do it quick! He'll be here between 11 and 1!

Update: I went with a block of C-4. Smitty will be missed.

Now She's Writing to Me

2008-08-06T09:31:00.004-05:00

I received this email yesterday from a celebrity.

Dear Rider,

I was Googling "Beowulf" and found your blog. I read it from beginning to end here on the set of The Spirit (coming Christmas 2008) and I am very impressed. I showed it to my fiancé Ryan and he even smiled once. Your message is relevant to people of my generation, and you have the drive and talent to become the best blogger in our country. A few criticisms, though:

• Your writing is lazy. Try to use more colorful, inspirational phrases.

• Your posts are too long. If a reader has to scroll down more than twice they'll lose interest. My generation has a short attention span. Stay on message.

• It's cruel to cover your dog's head with a wooden block for your silly gag photos. Animals are people too.

• Try not to write more "mythology" posts. Don't trick your readers into thinking you journeyed through "Mordor" or slept in a Target. Folks my age are smarter than that; give us some credit.

I hope this helps.

Voting Obama,
Scarlett

P.S. Write more about global warming. And Beowulf.

I know she's trying to help, and it's nice that I'm not the only one she's reaching out to, but sometimes constructive criticism, political or otherwise, can be hard to take.

Especially from someone about to marry a Canadian.

Dear Parking Lot Superhero

2008-08-01T23:59:00.005-05:00

You were standing in the AMC Theatre parking lot with your hands on your hips. Your Zubaz fluttered in the wind and you couldn't have looked cooler if you were wearing a cape.

I had gone to see the 6:20 showing of Step Brothers, but how could I have known my heart would swell even before I entered the theatre?

Yet there you were!

You seemed to be guarding one specific handicapped parking space--one of 20 available--and the look in your eyes said, "No foe shall invade this blue plot of tarmac as long as I draw breath."

I passed and you nodded slightly, as if to say, "Good morrow, citizen."

Just when I thought you couldn't look any more awesome, I turned to see you had produced a bo staff from the folds of your puffy pants. You placed it atop your shoulders and hung your wrists from it.

You suddenly looked like Jesus if Jesus were a 60-something dude with tiger-striped foofy pants and a bushy 'stache who stood around for no apparent reason.

But goddamn if I didn't feel safe for those few moments.

Bless you, Parking Lot Superhero.

I'm Not (Un)Dead Yet

2008-07-31T10:56:00.005-05:00

My site meter shows you've been lurking for fresh posts. I'll get to them soon. For now you'll have to be satisfied with zombies reciting poetry. Who'da thunk a severed foot could be an effective punch line?

Boxter Explains Fusion

2008-07-26T23:59:00.005-05:00

Greetings and salutations. My nom de plum is Boxter.* I am your guest blogger this evening. Your regular host is incapacitated for reasons I shall endeavour to explain (and you may fail to grasp, due to this tale's queer nature).

The man you know as "Rider" is a complicated individual; stout of heart with a genius-level IQ, while child-like in many ways. I have personally observed him tending his Japanese rock garden for hours--yet I have also seen him become wildly frustrated while lacing his footwear. He is a raving loon, destined to live out the latter half of his years in a sad institution with padded walls and medications distributed in paper cups.

However, I owe him my life (a story for another day) and therefore call him friend. As compensation for the food and shelter he provides, I am tasked with this blog's many Photoshop needs while Rider focuses on the "writing." I shall employ my design skills to relate the events transpiring earlier this week.

Whether or not the pig known as Fernando was actually kidnapped is immaterial. What is of significance is that Rider embarked on a quest and the reason for that quest ended before it could be resolved...

...Or was it? I posit the notion that the "Adventures of Rider on the Road" was actually a grand scheme subconsciously implemented by Rider himself to achieve mental health.

Few readers know that Rider has suffered from dissociative identity disorder since last year--a condition which led to the creation of multiple weblogs under a variety of different names. Fellow blogger McGone has even labeled him the "Moon Knight of the blogosphere."

Referencing the Marvel Comics hero was apropos: Marc Spector, a Chicagoan standing six-two, took on not only the identity of the costumed Moon Knight, but also those of Jake Lockley and Steven Grant. Living multiple lives threatened his mental stability and eventually caused a breakdown.

As I was living with a blind French-Vietnamese whore in a London crackhouse last year, the traumatic events which led to my friend's personality fragmentation are a mystery to me. The facts suggest that beginning November 16, 2007, at 9:00 AM, a disturbed man created at least three distinct blogs that focused on key aspects of his life: family, entertainment, and work.

Each blog was attributed to a different person. Eric Rider is one and Hal Haroldson is another.**

Does that revelation shock you? Imagine living with it. I discovered his shameful secret this past April when the mild-mannered family man I had known by one name popped in a horror DVD, unfastened his pants, and introduced himself as "Rider." He then poured cheap scotch into a Spider-Man coffee mug, and announced my new name was "Boxter." We watched zombie movies until dawn with frequent pauses to review exploding skulls in slow motion. His cackles were frightful and haunt my dreams still.

Which brings my story to a resolution of sorts. For months, neither Rider nor Hal acknowledged one another's existence. The walls started to crumble when Hal began posting comments on another blog about Rider...and Rider would respond. A conflict built and marched toward a confrontation. The date was unknown, but the place was hinted at in a post about a cryptic message left on Rider's cell phone: "oh hi oh." The Moon Knight connection was mentioned, as well as talk of welcoming back and going to "hell" (Hal).

Rider "caught up" to Hal in Sandusky, Ohio. It was there that he discovered his nemesis cavorting with Fernando...and that his foe was wearing his missing Blogger hoodie.

The next moments were disturbing to both myself and Hal's family, as this deranged man would alternately yell things at an empty chair, then put on the hoodie, sit in the same chair, and shout back to no one looming above him. I took pictures for the hearing.

Hal's family retreated to the indoor water park in tears. Fernando dove into the $20 margarita and drank non-stop until he passed out on a floating lime wedge. Bystanders thought they were witness to performance art.

The spectacle ended abruptly when Rider reached for Hal's chest, seemingly intent on grabbing the hoodie. The moment his hand "touched" the Blogger logo, Rider screamed one word--"Fusion!"--and collapsed in a heap.

Several folks in the crowd applauded. One threw a quarter. A little girl asked her father the meaning of fusion. "I dunno," he said, scratching his head. "Something having to do with fueling a time machine."

Here's what fusion means to Rider: acceptance of his mental disorder. He hasn't merged his disparate personalities into one whole person...yet. But upon returning to "the Block," an unusually quiet Rider sat down at his Mac and logged in to his Dashboard and added a link to his blogroll. He also tweaked the blog listings under his profile. He will ignore you if you call him Hal, though.***

"Little steps, Sparks" as David Morse said in Contact.

I must now bid you farewell, dear reader/lurker. Either Rider or Hal is screaming in the other room about how "John Mayer continues to be a tool," and "why does People.com continue to report his every move?"

At least they can both agree on something.

Best wishes,
Boxter
7.26.08

* My Christian name is actually Belvedere St. John-Smythe III, which was dismissed by Rider/Hal as "fruity" within seconds of my adoption. My actual face looks like this.

** The third, he of the work blog, must remain a mystery to non-invitees...which perhaps suggests a clue as to the nature of the trauma.

*** But he does refer to his "Significant Other" as his wife now.

The Silicon Chip Inside My Head Gets Switched to Overload

2008-07-21T11:59:00.006-05:00

I don't like Mondays.

I'm sitting here in a water park resort in Sandusky, Ohio, and I'm glaring at something that makes me want to shoot the whole day down.

I was inexplicably drawn here after yesterday's arrival. I spent the last of my cash to get in, and that's when my faithful Boston Terrier started going Spears-level nuts. Boxter pulled me out into the pool area and I barely had time to snap this picture...

...before he yanked me toward the private cabanas and bar area.

That's when I saw this table from a distance.

I've cropped it here, so you know exactly what Boxter was so excited about.

Looks like a dude enjoying a large, fruity beverage, right?

I moved in a little closer, and I noticed something unusual about the guy. His features were blurry.

Naturally blurry features are a distinguishing characteristic of only one other human on the planet. That man is Hal Haroldson of the Distant Authority Figure blog.

My nemesis.

A man with an irrational hatred of me and my Technorati ranking of 987,964.

Boxter kept straining on the leash, trying to get closer to Hal. After a moment, I realized why he wanted to get closer.

Fernando the pig, the International House of Blogcakes contributor, was drinking a $20 margarita with Hal.

Fernando, whom I set out to rescue when the Pork Liberation Front abducted him (for reasons confusing at best) and then released him (or something) before I had the chance to clear my name.

Fernando, whom was directly responsible for my leaving home and then wandering the country like a damned smelly hobo for seven weeks.

But even worse was when I realized what Hal was wearing.

My Blogger hoodie was stolen weeks ago. Now I find this Hal jerk wearing it--as if I'm not the only person in the country who owns one.

It.

Is.

On.

To be continued...
--
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First Reader to Call Me "Tommy Boy" Gets Punched

2008-07-20T13:59:00.006-05:00

After hours of wandering what I'm guessing were the outskirts of Mordor, the fog/emptiness slowly lifted and I emerged from the blogosphere into actual sunlight. It hurt my eyes.

I've only heard of this town from a Chris Farley movie. Have Boxter and I entered another dimension?

--
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I Think I See Robert Duvall

2008-07-19T23:59:00.002-05:00

Boxter and I have been walking for two hours now. We don't know where we are. It's all fog and emptiness as far as the eye can see, like we're on the set of THX-1138 or inside the mind of a TV programming exec. It's almost midnight, but it's bright here. We're not in Mordor anymore.

I'll report back later...
--
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Texted Movie Reviews: The Dark Knight

2008-07-18T23:59:00.009-05:00

Texted Movie Reviews™ is a regular feature wherein Rider posts SMS messages he received on his BlockBerry from friends or family members about current movies.

The following reviews are from Tim L. and Eriq E. about The Dark Knight.

Message #1 (Eriq):

Watchmen trailer so sick

Message #2 (Eriq):

Very well put togther film-lacking in action at times-both Heath and bale are excellent-I feel Heath would have received nod dead or alive

Message #3 (Tim):

Funny dark very very good heath ledger is great and a surprise twist in the plot

Message #4 (Eriq):

overall good movie-would see it again

Creepy Orphans, Manilow, and White Hen Sammiches

2008-07-17T09:30:00.002-05:00

Just to reestablish my credentials as a pop culture blogger, here's my wrap-up of the past few days.

Saturday - I watched The Orphanage on DVD. It frightened the living dooky out of me--in the middle of the day, no less. Remember how unsettled you felt toward the end of The Descent? I'm starting to like that...similar to getting addicted to the way your tummy feels when you're tipping backwards in a chair and catch yourself just before you fall. Wheee! Spooky moppets emerging from the shadows behind you!
Sunday - I was almost prompted to download a Barry Manilow song after seeing Hellboy II: The Golden Army. It also made me crave a cold Tecate. Even the voice of Seth MacFarlane couldn't ruin this movie for me (he's the antidote for funny).
Monday - I watched "The Drug Test" episode of Factory on Spike. The show capably balances quick, Arrested Development-type humor with blue-collar machinists talking smack about sex, their jobs, and life. When perfect shows like AD get cancelled, this one won't stand a chance. Still fun to watch while it lasts.
Tuesday - I've been known to occasionally watch Ninja Warrior on G4. Asians being humiliated on obstacle courses goes perfectly with Flamin' Hot Cheetos and scotch when the TiVo queue is lean. It turns out ABC's shameless ripoff Wipeout is surprisingly watchable and even funnier with Americans getting hurt. Who'da thunk it?
Wednesday - It was Wednesday, so Andy Dick did some inappropriate shit.

Day 43 on the road - I'm still wandering Mordor's heartland, and as you may recall in this post I've been shacked up in an Arby's.

My situation is both pathetic and sad. My clothes smell like curly fries. Boxter vomits on cue when our host Chas offers us Ham & Swiss Melts he planned on "throwing out, anyways." I've only been eating this "food" for eight days. I don't know how Morgan Spurlock lasted a month.

I took some cash from the register this morning (Chas encourages it), and walked to the nearest convenience store. You know Arby's food is bad when a White Hen ham sandwich with chips tastes like Thanksgiving dinner.

--
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Rider Explains the Appeal of Zombie Movies - Part Uno

2008-07-16T08:29:00.009-05:00

A new feature on the Block, where your humble host Rider attempts to explain the appeal of zombie movies. If you ever meet him at a blogger party and you've run out of topics--i.e. why Whatchamacallits are the best candy bar on the planet, 100 reasons why John Mayer is a tool, how Sprint is the worst cellular carrier in the U.S. and will fold within 12 months, etc.--there will be no need for awkward silences. He will have sparked a desire in your heart to seek out movies and books about the walking dead and you'll have more interesting things to discuss than why Dr Zibbs has been in the bathroom for an hour or how drunk McGone is again.

Our first installment focuses on the most obvious reason why zombie movies are so appealing...

It's fun taking out pent-up frustrations on family members and other worthless members of society.

Come on, admit it: you've wished your family members dead at least once in your life. Maybe it was the time mom smacked you when you spilled milk and sent you to bed without your liver and onions, and as soon as your bedroom door shut you whispered, "I wish God would take her in her sleep tonight."

And the next day she cooked you scrambled eggs and bacon and you loved her again--but the point remains: you wished your mother dead over trivial shit at a young age. That's a deep-seated instinct that never goes away, my friend.

Cut to a standard dilemma in every classic zombie movie since 1968's Night of the Living Dead: a character's brother or daughter is killed in a zombie epidemic, has a brief moment of peace, then opens their milky eyes and suddenly lunges after them with a garden trowel. Surprise!

It's you or them, dear reader. You don't want to kill Uncle Rudy, you have to. But what your inner self is actually whispering is, "Now you get to."

The primary reason why zombie flicks are so awesome is because you live out the fantasy of putting a bullet in the brain of the brother who teased you incessantly, the roommate who stuck you with a $1,500 phone bill from porn calls,* or the teacher who ridiculed you in front of the class for not knowing pi to the tenth decimal.

Or, as pictured, the birthday clown who once creeped you out and gave you nightmares and a life-long unpredictable bladder. Usually triggered by Ronald McDonald making parade appearances.

* True story. Sadly.

Not Feeling Like Blogging Today

2008-07-15T10:57:00.003-05:00

Bit of a pain in the gulliver. Got to rest. Otherwise I'm liable to miss a lot more blogging.

Texted Movie Reviews: Wanted

2008-07-09T09:21:00.004-05:00

Texted Movie Reviews™ is a regular feature wherein Rider posts SMS messages he received on his BlockBerry from friends or family members about current movies.

The following is Jeremy W.'s review of Wanted.

Message #1:

Wanted was awesome. No nudity.

Message #2:

Movie was awesome! GREAT kills

Click this link to read a translation of Angelina Jolie's tattoo

Day 35 on the road - Jebus help me. After leaving Target two days ago, now we're staying in an Arby's.

Chas, the 16-year-old store manager, lets us sleep in a booth because "the corporate douches haven't promoted me to district after five goddamn months. Besides, what are they gonna do--fire me? Feel free to use the laptop, even for porn. I've got shit bookmarked."

His assistant manager Gladys, a 43-year-old mother of six, brings us leftover Bacon Beef 'n Cheddars just before she leaves for the night. I have managed to keep them down, but just barely.

This morning the Mordor County Health Inspector walked in as I was bathing Boxter in the prep area sink. He watched quietly, then informed me that I "missed a spot." He gave the restaurant a pass in exchange for one of my Chuck Taylors. When I handed it over, he explained that he met Ellen Page at a Katy Perry concert and she autographed his right shoe. He keeps it on a shelf at home and needed a replacement.

Chas was pissed at me, though. "You shouln'ta done that, bro! Let 'im close us down! I needed a vacation!"

I replied that it could have turned into a permanent vacation.

"Dude-man, haven't you been listening? Nobody gets fired from Arby's! Joe-Ray the maintenance guy strangled the last store manager, and I just gave him a fi'ty-cent raise!"

I don't think I'll be staying here much longer.

Gotta go. Gladys just told me Boxter pooped in the walk-in.

It's No Leg Lamp but It's Certainly a Major Award

2008-07-08T10:01:00.000-05:00

Rider's Block has been recognized for excellence in bloggery--by an esteemed physician, no less!

Dr Zibbs over at That Blue Yak seems to think my wooden block head is a hoot. Sure, my physical malady caused me extreme suffering throughout childhood and the taunts of neighborhood bullies sent me running to my room in tears many times, but hey, what's more American than mocking the deformities of others? I guess that's how they roll in West Chester, PA. Why not punch a dwarf in his oversized, squishy noggin, Zibbs, you prick! Trip a cripple with leg braces and blog about how funny it was to watch his crutches flail about!

You think my having a cube-head was easy on my mom? Think again! She never really loved me. She never sang "Mockingbird" to me the way she used to when I was in utero and life still held such promise.

When I was seven my father told me, "Your goddamned head ruined everything! Just look at how your mother walks now!" Then he went back to mainlining Dewar's and smoking Salems to the filter, stubbing them out on my cranium. I didn't mind because it didn't hurt and he was giving me attention, but still...

...Er, where was I?

Zibbs has given me the virtual Arte Y Pico Award. I don't know what that means, I just know I've had a craving for salsa since I followed the link last night. He also tapped me for a meme, which I don't appreciate at all. I'm supposed to recognize five other blogs deserving of the Arte Y Pico.

Look at my blogroll, Zibbs. Does it look like I even know five other bloggers? You may be the blogging equivalent of the hot Dairy Queen babe in a hick town, but I don't sleep around with just any blogger who rolls past me in an El Camino with neon underlighting and three bucks for a Dilly Bar.

That said, here's my four, plus one:

1. A Crown of Thistles. MJenks may be the coolest chemist since Bryan Cranston on Breaking Bad--and he's probably in his underwear even more. He's written novels and almost had them published. Every other post has a Leelee Sobieski picture. Also, I contributed to his coolness by making him my Padawan learner on the finer points of mouseover text. He has graciously contributed to my sister blog Calling the Karma Police.

2. Valerie's Life 2.0. She's the Lucy van Pelt to my Charlie Brown. Valerie seems to hate me, always posting about how bad I smell or how I look like Sasquatch. She even drew herself kicking my ass once. What could I have done to inspire such venom? What does it mean when someone can't stop blogging about you? All I know is I'm too smart to run for any football she's holding, but she can't say the same. That girl is T-R-O-U-B-L-E(-D).

3. I, Splotchy. I'm not sure why I include him. He rarely posts.

4. josh pincus is crying. Why is J.P. crying? I can't speak for him but he makes me weep from looking at all his beautiful drawrings. His blog's got me reaching for more Kleenex than a teenaged boy watching The Girls Next Door. Plus you learn about the folks he sketches. Here, absorb a few factoids about Henry Rollins.

And here's my anti-award:

5. Distant Authority Figure. This is a dude (improbably) named Hal Haroldson. He's a funny enough guy, granted, but I must've done something to piss him off. He's always ragging on me whenever Valerie posts about how she can't get enough of me (which is always). Here's something he wrote about Amelia Earhart and Hitler, and how folks in hospitals would feel better after seeing fake news. For the record, I will punch his lights out if I ever meet him.

I apologize in advance to the above "winners," but I'm obligated to turn this beautiful awards ceremony into a meme.

Should you choose to accept this award, here's the fine print:

1) Pick 5 blogs that you think deserve this award for their creativity, design, interesting material, and also for contributing to the blogging community, no matter what language.

2) Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone.

3) Each award winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself.

4) Award-winner and the one who has given the prize have to show the link of “Arte y Pico” blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award which is here: Arte y Pico.

Thanks you for the award, Dr Zibbs. It weighs nothing at all. Like my mother's seething hatred of my sharp-edged head, I won't forget this.
--
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Moon Knight of Blogosphere...?

2008-07-07T10:00:00.002-05:00

I woke up in Target this morning (for the last time, it turns out) and I found the following message saved as a draft on my BlockBerry:

oh hi
oh you are in hell
you are
marc spector
jake lockley
steven grant
moon knight
of blogosphere
enough is enough
hell is waiting
welcome him back
german swine
will bear witness
go to hell

I don't remember typing it myself, but the handset was right next to me where I always leave it (see this picture and subtract the still-MIA hoodie). I don't recall any dreams, although one image in particular (left) is stuck in my mind.

To quote Pee-wee Herman, "What does it mean?"

I'm a little freaked, as you can imagine. First my hoodie goes missing, now mysterious messages are turning up on my phone.

I'm taking Boxter and we're leaving this town. I'm in the local Apple Store composing this message on a MacBook Air. (They're sweet machines, by the way.)

First I'm going to finish this post, then I'll check out McGone's blog and leave it open for others to enjoy 'cuz I'm a pal like that, and then we'll hit the road again. I'm going in whichever direction the wind takes me. As long as it's away from here, that's cool.

It was time to leave Target anyway. The workers had come back during the day to make their July 27 grand opening. Also, even though the sign looked OK back on June 11, now it's shedding its skin. And that's just weird.

How am I the "Moon Knight of the blogosphere"...?

A Peek Inside My (Block) Head: Newsweek

2008-07-02T07:52:00.008-05:00

I am trying to hold it together following yesterday's tragic occurrence. In the meantime, I'll share with you my first thought upon seeing the current cover of Newsweek.

How did I drudge up the back cover of a 1976 Marvel/DC crossover? Am I that pathetic...or that unabashedly awesome?
--
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My Blogger Hoodie

2008-07-01T10:20:00.018-05:00

I started using Blogger in March 2002. I upgraded my account one year later, shelling out my hard-earned lucre to add photos to posts (which sounds really stupid these days).

A few months later Google acquired Pyra Labs--the company that founded this service--and I received an email from its founder saying:

"Google has lots of computers and bandwidth. And Google believes blogs are important and good for the web."

Everyone reading Rider's Block knows how wrong Google was and how little it amounted to, right? I mean, how good can a blog be if anyone can have one?

Anywho, the email also informed me that since I had paid for Blogger Pro, Pyra was in a position to "give back." I was hoping book deal but...

I received my hoodie weeks later.

For the past five years, as far as you know, I have worn it while composing every post on each of the 99 blogs I've created (101 in total, if you count the Wilder Valderrama and Conchata Ferrell fan fiction sites).

It is the prize jewel of my wardrobe. I hand-wash it with soapy, distilled water mixed with baby's dreams and rose petals, and I blow dry it by mouth.

It is an essential component of my identity and it makes me who I am and drives my purpose for being...

but when I woke up this morning at this Target in central Mordor and looked around for my Blogger hoodie it wasn't there and I searched the whole store with Boxter's help but it was nowhere to be found and I'm sorta panicking right now because who could've taken it and when did they take it and I don't have a clue since there's not supposed to be anybody here except us and I'm already hungry from being banned from entering any Panera in the continental U.S. and now this happens and how can things get any worse and I really only have one question and that's

who took my Blogger hoodie and why?

A BLOGGER COLLAPSES: Rider reacts to the loss of his beloved hoodie

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WALL•E Question for the Kids

2008-06-30T18:52:00.003-05:00

If you know a child who saw WALL•E this past weekend, ask them the following question and watch their heads spin around:

Since we know Eve sees in black and white, courtesy of the POV of her security camera, how did she solve the Rubik's Cube?

It could be I missed something. Maybe it was because I was dabbing my eyes with my shirt sleeves and choking back sobs at what was, in my opinion, the best love story of 2008.
--
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Spot the Fake WALL•E and Winehouse

2008-06-30T12:25:00.006-05:00

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Nominee #1 for Favorite Supporting Character in a Horror Movie, 2008

2008-06-25T08:06:00.012-05:00

I loves me an Amish man and he's not Harrison Ford in Witness.

The first half of George Romero's Diary of the Dead rocked my little world, but the whole movie really picked up steam when a character named Samuel made his first appearance.

If you haven't seen it--and why the hell haven't you?--Samuel is a farmer caught up in a zombie uprising in Pennsylvania.

You'd think his character description would end there--since he appears in the movie less than five minutes--but he's so much more.

He's also a deaf/mute Amish man who communicates with a chalkboard and tosses sticks of dynamite with amazing accuracy. He can take out three of the walking dead in a single throw.

Samuel is my first nominee of the year for favorite supporting character in a horror movie. Watch it and just see if you don't fall in love, too.

This is now my BlockBerry's wallpaper, as it should be yours

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