BaconQuest Resumes

My handset is now fully charged and the ominous heat lightning has stopped, so Boxter and I have resumed our cross-country search for McGone's missing friend Fernando.

We wandered into a Target in the next town to use the facilities, and I thought I'd found him on one of the shelves.

This pig was made of porcelain, not molded plastic, and he gave no indication of possessing witty thoughts or dry sarcasm. Boxter didn't react to this scent, so we moved on.

We then entered a nearby Panera. The manager claimed Boxter couldn't come in due to health concerns. I pointed out that his health is immaculate. When she insisted, I claimed I was legally blind and Boxter was my "sight partner."

After I tethered him outside, I went back in for a bite to eat. Recently on Valerie's blog, some jerk took a shot at me, saying I didn't have enough money to eat in Panera.

He was right. I would have spent all my cash on soup and half a sandwich.

But did you know you can drink all you want at Panera if you keep your cup? I'm bringing mine with me.

I also cleaned out their bucket of lemon slices.


--
Sent from Gmail for mobile | mobile.google.com

Home Again, Home Again

Boxter and I had begun our search for Fernando, and even made it a few miles down the road, but then had to turn back. I forgot the travel adapter for my mobile handset.

Also the heat lightning last night made me think I was walking into a Jerry Bruckheimer movie. I got scared.

I'll try again in the morning.

Unless it storms.

Swine Flew

If you've been checking out McGone's blog lately, you know his porcine partner Fernando was abducted by the Pork Liberation Front last week. They are demanding $1 million dollars for his safe return.

Now, I've never met Fernando. I wouldn't know him from that floating pig above Pink Floyd concerts. He seems like a well-rounded chap, and for a hooved animal he's a good writer. But I wouldn't go out of my way to fill his slop bucket.

Yet...I'm about to embark on my own search for Fernando. I'm bringing my blog mascot Boxter with me.


Why, you ask? Why go out of my way to rescue a tiny pig I've never met from the clutches of another tiny pig? Three reasons: I'm unemployed with nothing better to do, the TV season is over, and I need to clear my name.

It seems my "good friend" McGone thinks I may be responsible for his pink pal's abduction. I can't have that hanging over my wooden head.

I've got a CrackBerry for mobile blogging purposes, and $10.78 in my pocket. That and my street smarts will be plenty to get us to Oregon, which is where the PLF seems to be headquartered.

Boxter has acquired the scent. I'll write more from the road.

Stay strong, Fernando. We're on our way.

And maybe, just maybe, we'll learn something about ourselves.

Hopefully I'll be back in time for the fall TV season.

How Is the IHoB Like a Comic Book Convention?

Because you can ask McGone to sketch fictional characters and he'll do it, just like the starving dudes wielding 2H pencils and Sharpies in artists' alley. He won't charge 20 bucks, either.*

This is McGone's interpretation of my blockheaded observation that possibly-dead Claire and Christian came off as evil Siths in last week's Lost. (Personally, I think the Emperor would have been even more evil with a sweaty glass of scotch in hand.)

One more question: How is McGone not like a comic convention? He owns fewer crazy outfits, he's felt the touch of a real woman, and he has above average hygiene.**

* You just have to buy the first and last rounds at the next meet-n-greet.
** Well, he has a girlfriend and he smells good, anyway. Two out of three...

Blockheaded Speculation on Lost 4.9

Even though "The Shape of Things to Come" blew many of the previous episode's theories out of the water, I appreciate Cuse & Lindelof's collective genius all the more.

You know what else I appreciate? The fact that folks who might normally look down their noses at the sort of plots easily embraced by comic book fans are now deeply invested in this show and have been duped into world-class geekitude. They think comics are "gay" because major characters have strange powers, get punched ad infinitum without serious injury, and fight powerful villains.

Meanwhile walking scar tissue Benjamin Linus is summoning smoke monsters and teleporting to Tunisia so he can face off against a British Lex Luthor...in an episode penned by a pair of comic book writers.

I loves me the irony as much as the blockheaded speculation. Try these on for size:

• Alex is not dead. You'll buy this if you think Ben is always two steps ahead of everyone else. For almost four seasons this master tactician has had a plan. Are we to believe that while he somehow knew the island could keep Michael alive, when his adopted daughter's life was at stake and the island might not protect her--he wouldn't release Smokey before her execution? I say he knew she would recover. Like how Locke was "lucky" when the bullet passed through his body where his kidney used to be--Ben knew from where Keamy was pointing his gun that that part of her brain contained memories of Karl and her early '90s fashion sense, and good riddance to both. But what about the ending with Widmore where Ben talks about taking out Penny? Well, if Alex is actually dead...
  
• Ben will leave the island by the season finale. When we see Ben waking up in the desert, that's hours after Alex's supposed death. He dons a Dharka and takes his grief with him into the future, pissed about the "changing of the rules." (Or it could be he knows Alex is fine but uses her shooting as an excuse to escalate his war with Widmore.)*
• Widmore is immortal and was on the Black Rock. Actually, this is a theory of McGone's which I lifted to pad this post. Aside from being a graphic designer, mixologist, and TV drama theorist, he is also a freelance illustrator of comic books. See? I brought this post full circle.
  

* Backpedal much, Rider?

Material for McGone Tell-All Grows

Oh, I've got McGone right where I want him.

From how he really feels about his blog partner Fernando, to how he was once so infuriated by a bobble-headed boss* he called his coworkers "fucktards" to their faces, I've got almost everything I need to start work on his unauthorized biography.

Check out the sheer number of emails we've exchanged over the years.


All I need is an interview with The Girl and I've got the makings of a best-seller.

* Actual nickname: The Baroness Magpie von Retardenhauer. A woman who instilled such venom in McGone (and others) that he had to restrain the urge to "rip off her arms just so [he] would have something to beat her into a coma with."

I Can Neither Confirm Nor Deny

As regular readers of my blog know, I have a wooden block for a head. It gives the title an excellent double meaning and it puts a little steam in my stride for thinking of it. New readers either accept it or they don't and move on with their Google searches for "Beowulf" or "Hot Rod." *

If I had a human head, though, it would look much like the handsome one sitting atop the South Park-generated avatar to the left.

I can't confirm the human head, however, since I see a block with drawn-on glasses and a smirk when I look in the mirror.

The keen eyes of regular readers will also notice a new addition to my blogroll. Just as Lennon had McCartney; and just as McGone has two pink, hairless friends named Slinger and Bakonstein; I've got Dean Xene.

I encourage you to check out the exploits of my gifted pal since the 8th grade in his new blog. He's a family man, a master of kung fu, and one hell of an architect. Check out his sketchbook/journal on Flickr and see the kind of impressive stuff he's been showing me since college.

Oh, and Dean has a tendency to refer to me as "Al Damage." I'm not sure where he gets that. It sounds like some weak, pre-blogosphere attempt at a cyber nom de plume, circa 2000.

Remember: my actual name, as far as you know, is "Eric Rider." I'm an unemployed writer with a wooden block for a head. I'm not a real boy.

* Which are both, inexplicably, drawing a daily visitor total of 30 hits a day.

Happy St. Patty's Day

Sure, some people are more into it than others, like Captain Ireland (see McGone's list of the top ten redheads today), but we're all Irish today, right? Even Muppets who aren't capable of singing the lyrics to "Danny Boy."

Creepy Character Actor Plays Creepy Cartoon Character

I defied my life coach's recommendation last September and continued watching Prison Break's third season. Yeah, I know it's a pale imitation of what it used to be. I get that. I can think of ten reasons not to bother anymore.*

But one of the reasons I keep watching is to see one of the creepiest bad guys on television right now.

Robert Knepper is a walking snake with unkempt hair. He's a slimy man-insect that skitters up out of your peripheral vision and caresses your cheek with his antennae and whispers, "How do?" in your ear.

Your first reaction when he appears onscreen is to cringe, and when he touches his tongue to his teeth and sucks in air you feel your gorge rise.

Can you think of anyone else on television who's creepier?

Naturally, I was thrilled when I realized exactly who had voiced the superbly dickish "Chichak" in the animated direct-to-DVD feature Turok: Son of Stone.**

I was sort of bummed, though, during the making-of special feature when Knepper was interviewed and sounded nothing at all like T-Bag.


* Here are five: 1. Wentworth Miller's acting range never strays from David Duchovny doing Richard Gere, 2. Jodi Lyn O'Keefe's features are disturbingly tiny on that wide face of hers, 3. Bellick displays his dirty underwear and/or beer gut in every episode, 4. Sucre still finds ways to cry "Maricruz!" even though she's not on the show anymore, and 5. The prison's Big Bad once showed the absolute extent of his "evil"...by pouring hot coffee on a guy's back. He also won't share his cell phone, the big meany.

** Turok's not rated and it's not for young kids: lots of limbs hacked off and blood spurting, although it does have dinosaurs.

Meme, Myself, and I

I feel like a pretty girl at a high school mixer.

I was drinking punch with my friends, and this red-faced little dweeb approached and asked me to dance. That's what it's like when you're tagged for a meme. I'm a pretty girl. McGone's the dweeb. But I'll dance with him out of courtesy because I'm not stuck-up.

If he gropes me, though, I'm calling a chaperone.

1. Voted Most Likely to:
Never talk to women. Sort of. I was nicknamed "Bashful" under a "Seven Dwarfs" theme in one yearbook. Better than the potato-nosed guy chosen as "Dopey" who took it as a personal insult and didn't want to talk about it.

2. Regrets:
I've been fired for undeniably stupid reasons that aren't fun to explain. I don't have any cool stories that end with, "I threw hot coffee in his face and said, 'You can't fire me, motherfucker--'cuz I quit!'" Also, I've never commanded an army of trained animals to kill an ex-boss after work hours.


3. It’s a Monday, you are tired and don’t feel like working, so you:
Masturbate.*

4. You would prefer to have dinner with:
Andre.

5. If you were going bald, you would:
Curse my father. Slap my mother. Prepare for a delicate talk with my son.

6. You lay awake at night, pondering:
Where Dopey is now, did he ever nail Snow White, and is he still angry at me for laughing at his nickname.

7. If you were forced to share a cubicle, the most important thing you look for is:
A willingness to give back rubs and the nerve to continue doing so when the boss approaches. I like the idea of forcing management to say, "Giving back rubs in the workplace is not appropriate behavior."


8. What is most likely to be found in the trunk of your car:
Nothing, officer. No, I hadn't heard my ex-boss is missing and feared dead. In the backseat? Those are just my ferrets. I'd say about 200, give or take. What's on their faces and paws? Oh, they just got into the ketchup.

9. Favorite Spinal tap movie moment:
The leprechauns' choreography around Stonehenge.


10. Based on your work history, the job you SHOULD HAVE right now is:
Probably a full-time dreamer. (See, now you've got me quoting Tap.)

11. Your imaginary band name is:
Either Dick Cheney's Smile or Jerry McTaint and the Testicles.

I don't tag anyone for this meme. I'm taking Marni's approach: if you feel like running with it, be my guest. 2008 is the year of casualness and no meme commitments. I did this one for two reasons: 1) To continue my ongoing streak of a post a day, and 2) McGone mentioned Carson Daly in a negative light in his meme, which is a specific tag of mine here on The Block. That's what I like about McGone. We're like this: [silently pointing two fingers back and forth between myself and McGone, indicating we're cut from the same cloth].

* I'll take any excuse to use this word. It looks funny in print and it's funnier when said aloud.

This Is Why I Don't Shake Hands

I caught a story virus from McGone, who was infected by "Patient Zero" Splotchy--who didn't sneeze into his sleeve before touching others.

I'm continuing the story, color-coded by each participant so far. I've challenged myself to find ways to include the names of each of the authors in my section. I pick it up after the purty sequential art that's too good for the blogosphere...

I woke up hungry. I pulled my bedroom curtain to the side and looked out on a hazy morning. I dragged myself into the kitchen, in search of something to eat. I reached for a jar of applesauce sitting next to the sink, and found it very cold to the touch. I opened the jar and realized it was frozen. (Splotchy)

I was used to the house being quite cold in the mornings, as the night log usually burns out around one AM when I am dreaming cozily under my covers, not normally waking to put a new one on until morning. I was surprised because on the rare occasions that it actually had reached sub-freezing temperatures in the house, I had awakened in the night to restart the fire. I would have been worried about the pipes before P-Day, but there hadn’t been running water in two years and that was one of the few advantages to being dependent on rainwater, no pipes. (Freida Bee)

I rummaged around in the kitchen and found one of the few things that hadn't frozen overnight to eat- an expired granola bar. "Better than nothing", I muttered to myself as I tore off the wrapper and took a bite, trying to not chip a tooth in the process.I thought I should go out to the shed and bring in more wood. The mind-numbing cold snap that had set in over the last few days seemed to be in no hurry to leave. Pulling on my heavy coat and wool hat, I considered for a moment what lay ahead for the day. Normally I would spend much of the day making any needed repairs to the house, cleaning, reading various newsletters, cooking, and just trying to keep busy in general. With no job to fill my time anymore I have found my new found "freedom" to be both a blessing and a curse. Ever since P-day, the only job most of us have is to sit in our homes and find something, anything, to pass the time.Well, that- and to stay alive. (Whiskeymarie)

I reached the woodshed I’d built from the remains of our fence, and heard a rustling. Fearing one of the wild dogs that now roamed the neighborhood, I crept back to the house for the gun my husband left with me before he volunteered to join the fighting. My hand was shaking so badly, I didn’t think I could pull a trigger, so I also grabbed an old broomstick to use as a club. My son tried to follow me, and I ordered him back inside; he obeyed, frightened by the harshness of my tone. He seemed not to sense how terrified I was and I was glad. Inching toward the shed, glancing backward every few steps to be sure the children were staying inside, I heard the rustle again, accompanied by a very human cough.

“Who is it?” I shouted, in as angry and menacing a voice as I could muster. No response.

“Damn it, I know you’re in there! I have a gun! Come out with your hands up, or I’ll just start shooting!”

“Don’t shoot!” said the voice, and...
(CDP)

I woke up hungry. The room was white, small and seemed to not have any doors. That is when I realized I was naked. I had a thin sheet of plastic over me and some machine making beeping noises to my left.

I started to rise up that is when I noticed the cuffs holding me to the bed. I started to scream.

A large booming voice came over a loud speaker, "Calm down, calm down Mrs. Peabody."

I bellowed out, "Who are you?! Why am I chained down?! Where are my children?! "

The voice replied, " There has been an accident, everything will be fine. There will be someone to assist and answer your questions shortly."

Then there was silence. I yelled some more but nothing. No response. Then suddenly, a creaking sound. To the right there was a door opening, it was......
(Wyldth1ng)

A cat. A small black cat padded gently in and hopped on the bed. It paused to look at me and let out a sorrowful moan. As it crept toward my face I looked into its strangely unsettling eyes.

"Down, Scheiser," a man's voice spoke.

A sullen, shambling figure entered the room. His right hand was bandaged, part of it soaked through with blood.

"Hello, Mrs. Peabody." He pulled up a chair. "Sit, Scheiser."

The cat curled up on the man's feet. The man stared past me, resigned, distracted.

"Where is my family?!!" I moved my leg to kick at the man, only inches from me, but restraints dug into my ankles.

Without turning to address me, the man spoke, in words that seemed memorized and repeated a hundred times before -- "Your family is safe. As safe as any of us can be. I would let you go see them right now if I could, Mrs. Peabody. But you and I are linked."

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Applesauce. Cold. What do you really know about what your people call, P-Day, Mrs. Peabody? It is starting again."
(Splotchy)



"We extracted spunk from Applesauce," I said, "in an effort to create an ape/human hybrid capable of withstanding the effects of P-Day, and to lead humanity into the future by its overly long forearms."

Colonel Sanders stroked his pussy with his bandaged hand. Scheiser purred and arched her back. He shambled over to a locked cabinet, fumbling through a keychain.

"I recruited a geneticist named McManus from a California think-tank." I laughed, remembering. "The kid was a genius. He had an annoying habit of adding the first part of his name to words while he spoke. 'The application is up and mcrunning.' But it was McManus who made the breakthrough discovery..."

Sanders produced a bottle and two glasses from the cabinet. "Whiskey, Marie?"

I shook my head. "I gave it up after I left the CDP." I sighed and continued. "Most people know we share 98% of our genetic code with chimps. But finding a way to fuse the two would take years. We found one test subject that shared a phenomenal 99.99% of his DNA with our smoking orangutan. That meant we could hammer out a viable hybrid by Thursday."

"Yes, you're talking about the Republican presidential candidate," he interrupted. He reached over to an intercom on the wall and thumbed the button. "Freida, be a dear and bring me the sodium pentathol."

"But I'm telling you the truth!" I said, struggling against the restraints. "McManus hit the jackpot! It was like Googling your ex's name and finding their gay porn site! So we proceeded with the project, envisioning a future where super-strong, red-haired citizens swung from streetlights and regarded Clint Eastwood as a deity. Who wouldn't want to pray to Dirty Harry every night?"

A mousy woman in horn-rimmed glasses entered, holding a syringe. She handed it to Sanders, taking care to avoid eye contact with me. I noticed she had a mustard stain on the collar of her lab coat.

"Hey, Wild Thing," I said. "You've got a splotch--"

"Ee," she squeaked, scurrying out of the room.

"Droll," Sanders said, tapping the syringe. "Please, continue."

"We produced a flawless cloned cell within days. And then we realized two things. McManus found that Applesauce's mental capacities left something to be desired. His intelligence level was sub-standard for an orangutan of his age."

Sanders paused. "So you're telling me Republican candidate Fred Thompson's DNA is comparable to that of a retarded ape?"

"Precisely," I said. "And then the frozen sample of Applesauce Junior was stolen from the lab. One minute I was working in my office, the next I hear McManus shrieking, 'It's mcgone! It's mcgone!'"

***

That was a little longer than I thought it would be (that's what she said). So who should catch the virus from here? I cough in the general direction of:

Team Slinger, 'cuz he needs something to blog about other than his job.
Valerie, 'cuz she's been coasting on Vegas stories for over a week.
The Ex, just 'cuz.

Best Movie Quote from Hard Candy

At least one other blogger has written a comprehensive study of actress Ellen Page and her performance in the 2005 independent movie Hard Candy, so I'll just limit this post to one quote.

"I guess they, uh, weren't brass." *

Add this to your Netflix queue and watch it with a guy. He'll wriggle uncomfortably for 103 minutes.


* I so called the disposal.