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

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.

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

Subtitle: Rider Disillusions a Coworker

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" he spat.

"Lola's a dude, man."

"What?"

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

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

We never spoke again.

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

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

Fanfic By Celebrities

When an average sports fan performs his own song about a favorite team, it comes across as the musical equivalent of fan fiction.

Fanfic is a frightening thing to stumble across on the Interweb. So frightening, in fact, that I don't even want to Google search or link to it.

You wanna lose faith in your fellow man right quick? Check how many sites are devoted to the erotic misadventures of superheroes in bondage. (Or don't. Just sleep well knowing they exist.) The concept is as mystifying as Jeremy Piven's hairline 20 years ago compared to now.

So when an accomplished musician pens his homage to a pro baseball team, why is that not seen as geeky?

I can easily see Eddie Vedder writing a song about playing Wiffleball with his childhood friends in the streets of Evanston, Illinois; a fond recollection of a cherished activity that didn't involve millionaire athletes and a brand name.

I just think geniuses like Vedder should be above celebrating a baseball franchise. It seems so anti-Vedder; so unlike the guy who campaigned against Ticketmaster.

And this isn't a Cubs vs. Sox thing. I'd think this was out of character if he were singing about Comiskey Park.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to chapter 37 of my "Willow Loves Tara Always" story.

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

Comcast-ick*

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.

Last Blogger Standing

"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!

Rider's Clone Wars Review

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

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.)

I'm Not (Un)Dead Yet

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?

The Silicon Chip Inside My Head Gets Switched to Overload

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

Calling the Karma Police

I just started a fifth blog, because four wasn't enough.

The thing is, I used to combine all aspects of my life under one catch-all about pop culture, family life, work life, current events, etc.

Of course, those who know me personally know how that turned out.

Oh, I learned my lesson. Sure, you think it's OK to use your real name on the Interweb, because, hey, this is America and we have freedom of speech and I can say damn well what I want on my personal time without repercussions...but I was ignoring one important thing.

Karma.

Please check out my new blog Calling the Karma Police. It's a collection of links and stories about how we're all subject to checks and balances on a cosmic scale.

I'm inviting contributors, which means you're more than welcome to submit an interesting story about your own run-ins with the big K. Just shoot me an email and join the team. No fraternity-level hazing or snipe-hunting gags, I promise.

Gotta go. Have to start planning my sixth blog.

Peggy Sussed

At the closing credits of Danny Boyle's latest flick Sunshine, I was floored by a song by Underworld. A quick search of iTunes yielded nothing. The best I could manage was this YouTube video. Does anyone know where a Mac user can score a legal, virus-free copy of "Peggy Sussed"? Damn, that song kicked my ass as much as the movie.

This fansite, with the song's lyrics, is interesting as well.

Turns Out It Wasn't Just Steve - Updated

Terri Irwin, bebanged widow of the "Crocodile Hunter," still puts her children in...interesting situations with wild animals.

Remember when Steve fed a hungry croc while holding his one-month-old son? Well, Robert is now four, and he's just been bitten by a boa constrictor. It's cool, though. Explains my nominee for 2008's Mom of the Year, "I assured Robert I wouldn't actually let him play with venomous snakes" [italics added].

She's got a valid point. Boas don't have poison. Just rows of sharp teeth. Watch how little blood they actually draw on a grown man.



See. Nothing to get your panties in a bunch about. A kid should be able to handle a snake attack like that with a minimum of mental trauma.

It's not like she's plunking a rugrat on a blanket with a hissing cobra and allowing it to be struck repeatedly in the head.

Note: Easily upset folks should not click this link, although it's fairly clear the snake's fangs have been removed and the child is never actually injured. This means you, Valerie. (And no, it's not the fat, naked Interweb surfer again.)

Update: YouTube pulled the cobra/infant video due to violation of terms. Probably for the best. You can guess just how disturbing it was by reading how two grown men reacted to it in the comments.

Unanswered Questions from Lost 4.2

Before they had an end date in sight, the old Lost would've stretched the events of tonight's episode out over three weeks. But in a short 48 minutes we got the backstories of four new interesting characters, a Colonel Kurtz joke, pet polar bear bones, a cowbell, a shooting, a fresh round of Whose Turn Is It To Kick Ben's Ass?, and proof that Mr. Abbadon wasn't a figment of Hurley's imagination.

That's not to say questions weren't left hanging in the air like the bitter stench of sadness wafting off a soundly whipped Mormon presidential candidate.

• Was Jeff Fahey added to the cast to refuel the old theories that events on the island are happening in a virtual reality?
• How were the rover operators so sure of the flight number of the sunken plane? Is Oceanic like Qantas and rarely has accidents?
  
• How much longer will it be until Jennifer Love Hewitt is featured as Miles Straume's lover in a Very Special Crossover Episode with The Ghost Whisperer?
• When we finally see Fisher Stevens as George Minkowski, will the producers furnish him with a thick prosthetic for his pencil-neck so he doesn't look like the male equivalent of Giada De Laurentiis? Because a huge head on a thin body is just so distracting...and I miss enough Easter eggs on this show already.
  

Writers Guild of America Solidarity Beard Update #2

As the number of unwatched Daily Shows and Colbert Reports that I stockpiled months ago dwindle in my TiVo queue, the reality of the strike is hitting home.

Here's a perfectly executed swipe at Viacom by Jon Stewart's writers. It's worth watching just to hear the phrase "herpes in their nasal passages."



Of course my lush facial hair continues to grow--at an uncoordinated snail's pace--much to the amusement (and aggravation) of my female readers. But it's the effort that counts here, gals.

Open Letter to My Friend Playing Guitar Hero III Next to Me

'Sup, dude?

'Member Tuesday when we were rockin' the PS3 at your place? Then Slash crawled out of your mouth and took over for you? Not cool, bro. I kinda messed my pants a little and mom was pissed.


Next time that happens I'm out the window. No, seriously, bro. But first I'll slap the top hat off that scary prick's head and swing the controller upside his skull. I don't care what his score was.

Sincerely,
The Best Dual-play Partner You'll Ever Have Unless I Turn Into Eddie Van Halen