Rider and Obama Vs. China

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...

...that I'd blog less.

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

Regarding Dolls and Escapism

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!"

Rider Recuperates from Shock(wave Lithotripsy)

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's one stone down, one to go.

R.I.P. Madge The Stone

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

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

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

Happy Anniversary?

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

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

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

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

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

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

I continued blogging because I love to write.

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

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

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

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

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


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

Madge Is Soaking In Him

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

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

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

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

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

Rider's Been Released

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

Patient 5 Blogs at 3:33 in the Morning

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

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

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

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

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

I just asked nurse Danielle for more dilaudid.

I'll be out of it for a while.

Live Blogging from Rider's Pharmaceutical Candyland*

Oh, Jebus! Here comes the dilaudid!

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

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

Holy

holy

shit.

* Kudos to McGone for this title suggestion, via text

Rider Is In The Hospital

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

I'll tell you more when I know more.

Rider's Origin Story - Updated

You say you want to read more Rider?

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

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

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

"The Devious Tale of June Chipmunk, Part 1"

"The Devious Tale of June Chipmunk, Part 2"

"The Devious Tale of June Chipmunk, Part 3"

"The Devious Tale of June Chipmunk, Finale"

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

Early Voting Shocker on the Block

Rider here, sending a quick post from my BlockBerry.

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

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

Seriously, did you know that?

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

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

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

But this was a huge shocker.

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

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

Stephanie Introduces Herself To The Block

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rider Leaves the Block

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have you read it?

It's shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm sure he's heard it before.

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

Subtitle: Rider Disillusions a Coworker

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" he spat.

"Lola's a dude, man."

"What?"

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

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

We never spoke again.

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

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

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

Yesterday MTV announced that Total Request Live is being canceled.

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

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

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

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

I'll put it into perspective.

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

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

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

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

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

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

There's a lesson here, folks.

Know when it's time to move on.

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

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

Why I Haven't Blogged Much This Week

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

I'll give you three reasons.

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

Specifically Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am available for bar mitzvahs and corporate events.

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

Asian Table-Puller

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then...

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

What. The. Holy. Hell.

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

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

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

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

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

I hate you, Asian table-puller.

Thanks for Contributing to My Cool, Sally

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

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

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

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

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

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

* "Gaw, Dad, no! Jeez!"