Paramental Weekend

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

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

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.

Rider's Block Productions: Currently in Development, Part 1

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.