When I was in highschool I had a pretty sweet English teacher. She introduced me to several notable authors and poets. She also taught the college English course I later took. Unfortunately, I wasn't the best student and often failed to complete my work on account of being lazy. Still, she encouraged me to do my best and tried to accommodate my habits as best as she could.
One day, we were tasked with composing a short poem that would be read to the class on the following day. Naturally I blew off the assignment, forgot all about it, and half-panicked the next day when the other students began reading their work to the class. What follows is the hastily scrawled poem that I wrote on the spot, as it was the day I penned it, which somehow scored me an "A." Although tempted, I haven't changed it from its original form. Enjoy!
A Stitchwork Affair
There was an old Crone, that lived all alone,
Wishing her heartache away.
From hook laden walls, hung porcelain dolls,
Entertainment for her day.
Females were those, with slipper clad toes,
Mute during her play.
Yet silent still, in dark evening chill,
They all remained that way.
Believed all but lost, came from floor boards tossed,
A Stitchwork Knight in fray.
This poor doll fought, as if all were not,
The Crone’s cat every day.
For his maiden pled, from her shelved bed,
So this cat he must slay.
Wily is he, that ferocious Henry,
Doth The Knight did pray.
And on full moon bright, in the darkest of light,
Came the doll through hay.
With scissor in hand, you will understand,
Henry became prey.
From barstool he glared, whilst his maiden stared,
All aswoon and fey.
For the distance too great, from pillar to plate,
No flowers that May.
So returning to gloom, in the dust from the broom,
Our hero rests all day.
One day, he swore, should he be never more,
Freedom for his maiden of clay.
The Crone could not bare, A Stitchwork Affair,
Unknowing in bed she lay.
From far off they yearn, while within they burn,
As The Crone and her dolls now play.
Love,
Smiley Grimm
Monday, December 28, 2009
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Traditions With Scissors
As the year comes to a close (thank Cthulhu!) I look forward to an annual tradition. No, I am not referring to Christmas, not directly anyway. Not being Christian and not having money means that I usually don't worry about buying gifts for people. In turn, I don't receive much. I would if I could but I haven't the foresight for planning of that magnitude. The one gift I give is to myself in the form of Edward Scissorhands. While everyone else is neck high in yule and the veneration of their Lord, I on the other hand indulge in my favorite movie of all time.
Facts
1. Edward Scissorhands is the greatest movie of all time.
2. It has the best soundtrack ever, composed by none other than the genius Danny Elfman.
3. Tim Burton and Johnny Depp benefitted greatly from it. This was the start of their many great, and not so great, collaborations.
I can still recall seeing this movie at the theater in December of 1990. Even though I was too young to fully understand it, I was able to sense the emotions and the major themes of the movie, that of isolation and self-discovery. As my family left the theater, I was full of questions. Thankfully they were patient with me as I tried to understand what I had seen and answered my questions as well as they could. The movie impacted me so greatly that is has stayed with me after nineteen years.
Before I owned a copy of the film I had to resort to waiting for it to be shown on television. For many years it was shown during the holiday season on various movie channels. Sadly, this is not so these days. I had to suffer a few years without it until I finally purchased it on VHS, and later on DVD. In fact, after finding out when it would be released on DVD, I bought it the day it hit stores. Ever since then I have watched it during the month of December.
Many are the times that I watched with eyes full of wonder as the beautiful gothic imagery unfurled on screen. No matter who I am with or where I am, I always laugh at the funny parts, sit on edge during the intense scenes, and somehow manage to get something in my eye during the sad moments. I've watched Edward Scissorhands in bed, on a couch, at a desk, and even in my truck on a portable DVD player. I will continue this habit for as long as I draw breath.
It is kind of strange now that I am older than the main characters in the story. When I was younger, their story was a fairy tale that I may someday be fortunate enough to fall into, one of true love and happiness. Now older, I see it as a bittersweet tale of an ideal that I never found, and never will. Where before I could identify with and look up to the main teenage characters, now I view them in the same way that the adult characters do. Like them, I see Edward and Kim as pure innocence personified; unfettered by the darkness of our cruel world their love should bloom eternal, but nothing so wholesome can be sustained here. Like the adults in the story, I have to live through the youth vicariously, until their souls are crushed by the harsh realities of a planet that can't rotate without conformity and submission. This is a testament to the greatness of the movie. It is an ageless classic, spanning time and point of reference, and touches the hearts of fans of great cinema.
There are only so many Decembers, and after I have lived my final one I still wouldn't have seen the film enough times. You can be sure that I will tumble into the world of Edward Scissorhands before this December is done.
Love,
Smiley Grimm
Frankenstein in the suburbs.
Facts
1. Edward Scissorhands is the greatest movie of all time.
2. It has the best soundtrack ever, composed by none other than the genius Danny Elfman.
3. Tim Burton and Johnny Depp benefitted greatly from it. This was the start of their many great, and not so great, collaborations.
I can still recall seeing this movie at the theater in December of 1990. Even though I was too young to fully understand it, I was able to sense the emotions and the major themes of the movie, that of isolation and self-discovery. As my family left the theater, I was full of questions. Thankfully they were patient with me as I tried to understand what I had seen and answered my questions as well as they could. The movie impacted me so greatly that is has stayed with me after nineteen years.
"I've been watched more than this many!"
Before I owned a copy of the film I had to resort to waiting for it to be shown on television. For many years it was shown during the holiday season on various movie channels. Sadly, this is not so these days. I had to suffer a few years without it until I finally purchased it on VHS, and later on DVD. In fact, after finding out when it would be released on DVD, I bought it the day it hit stores. Ever since then I have watched it during the month of December.
Many are the times that I watched with eyes full of wonder as the beautiful gothic imagery unfurled on screen. No matter who I am with or where I am, I always laugh at the funny parts, sit on edge during the intense scenes, and somehow manage to get something in my eye during the sad moments. I've watched Edward Scissorhands in bed, on a couch, at a desk, and even in my truck on a portable DVD player. I will continue this habit for as long as I draw breath.
Snow I would actually like.
It is kind of strange now that I am older than the main characters in the story. When I was younger, their story was a fairy tale that I may someday be fortunate enough to fall into, one of true love and happiness. Now older, I see it as a bittersweet tale of an ideal that I never found, and never will. Where before I could identify with and look up to the main teenage characters, now I view them in the same way that the adult characters do. Like them, I see Edward and Kim as pure innocence personified; unfettered by the darkness of our cruel world their love should bloom eternal, but nothing so wholesome can be sustained here. Like the adults in the story, I have to live through the youth vicariously, until their souls are crushed by the harsh realities of a planet that can't rotate without conformity and submission. This is a testament to the greatness of the movie. It is an ageless classic, spanning time and point of reference, and touches the hearts of fans of great cinema.
There are only so many Decembers, and after I have lived my final one I still wouldn't have seen the film enough times. You can be sure that I will tumble into the world of Edward Scissorhands before this December is done.
Smiley Grimm
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Paperhouse: Revisited
In a previous post, You Gotta Cut Down Trees To Build A Paperhouse, I detailed my twenty one year quest to find an elusive movie that has haunted me for most of my life. Said movie, Paperhouse, was never released in The U.S.A., which made finding it that much more difficult. With a bit of luck, and persistent Google-ing, I did manage to procure a copy, watch it, and bring closure to that which had ailed me. What follows is a review of the movie, my thoughts on the matter, and all that implies.
Assuming you read my first post on the subject of Flicker Cogitations and how it tied into the movie Paperhouse, you know how important it was to me to finally get my mitts on a copy of this motion picture. It took a few weeks to arrive, but when it did I was more than relieved. Eagerly I ripped open the packaging to discover the eyes of a little girl staring back at me from the front cover of the DVD. The cover was different than I expected, it didn’t match any of the photos I had seen online, and the case was kind of shoddy. Upon turning it around, to read the blurb, it donned on me that this was no typical DVD case, it may be a cheap bootleg. After removing the plastic seal and opening the case, my suspicions were proven correct.
You can link all kinds of metaphors and parabolic attributes to the film, such as: be careful what you wish for; the power of expression; the importance of a family structure; the power of love, and etc.. It has what I think all great stories share: applicability. It is a cute story that speaks to each person a little differently. In the end I was left wanting only DVD quality presentation. Perhaps the movie is too awesome to adequately contain within modern media storage devices. Perhaps I am totally biased. Either way, I am glad I finally got to see Paperhouse and put to bed a wacky series of memories that have plagued me for the past twenty one years.
If the nipples of an eleven year old girl and adolescents making-out doesn’t disturb you too much, check it out. If you can find a non-pirated copy that is.
Love,
I would totally live there.
Assuming you read my first post on the subject of Flicker Cogitations and how it tied into the movie Paperhouse, you know how important it was to me to finally get my mitts on a copy of this motion picture. It took a few weeks to arrive, but when it did I was more than relieved. Eagerly I ripped open the packaging to discover the eyes of a little girl staring back at me from the front cover of the DVD. The cover was different than I expected, it didn’t match any of the photos I had seen online, and the case was kind of shoddy. Upon turning it around, to read the blurb, it donned on me that this was no typical DVD case, it may be a cheap bootleg. After removing the plastic seal and opening the case, my suspicions were proven correct.
Front cover.
Shoddy packaging.
Okay, so it was a cheap burn that some dude concocted on his home computer. I was kind of ripped off, but no big deal, right? Inspecting the DVD itself revealed that it was in fact a Region 1 DVD, thus it would work on my home player. I didn’t need to wait for my Region 2 player to arrive from the United Kingdom. I could watch it immediately. Humans hate stepping in poo, but flies love the stuff!
I popped it in, hit play, and waited for the greatness to flow. Within nanoseconds I knew that my crucible wasn’t yet over. You may remember the days of VHS and the need to adjust the tracking of the analog tape. If you didn’t adjust the tracking correctly, the image would bounce. Whoever transferred this movie did so directly from VHS tape, but they failed to properly adjust the tracking. The image was slightly jumpy. Eventually, I managed to forget about it and grew accustomed to it. Also, I had forgotten how terrible VHS audio was. We are truly spoiled by HD.
Technical issues aside, I can say that I rather enjoyed the movie. Almost assuredly I can say that I would have loved it as a child. Paperhouse tells the story of a young girl who falls ill. While in recovery, she spends her waking moments drawing pictures. While sleeping she finds herself in a fantasy dreamworld of her making, created by her daytime artwork. Whatever she draws manifests in her dreamworld. After realizing this, she indulges herself by drawing that which she desires most: friends and family. Conflict arises when the manifestations come to life fatally flawed. She draws a boyfriend, his legs don’t work. She draws her father, he is blind and stricken with a fever that only a prescription of hammer kills can cure. That’s right, her dreamworld father tries to murder her and her boyfriend with a hammer. I guess he doesn’t approve of her potential mates.
Better than birth control.
The story gets even creepier when she learns that the boyfriend in her fantasy world is a real person, another patient at the hospital she is resting in, and he happens to be in a coma. The feelings they share are real and the perils they face together in the dreamworld have real-world consequences. It is up to the little girl to draw the tools for survival while awake, so that she and her friend can overcome their hardships while dreaming. Without spoiling it for you, because I feel you should see the movie yourself, the ending is bittersweet.
You can link all kinds of metaphors and parabolic attributes to the film, such as: be careful what you wish for; the power of expression; the importance of a family structure; the power of love, and etc.. It has what I think all great stories share: applicability. It is a cute story that speaks to each person a little differently. In the end I was left wanting only DVD quality presentation. Perhaps the movie is too awesome to adequately contain within modern media storage devices. Perhaps I am totally biased. Either way, I am glad I finally got to see Paperhouse and put to bed a wacky series of memories that have plagued me for the past twenty one years.
If the nipples of an eleven year old girl and adolescents making-out doesn’t disturb you too much, check it out. If you can find a non-pirated copy that is.
Love,
Smiley Grimm
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Art Party, Pt. 5 - Do You Believe In Sausages?
This is the conclusion of my epic blog, so I once again advise that you read the other entries first. Those who read the end before the begining are stoopid and dumm.
Art Party, Pt. 1
Art Party, Pt. 2
Art Party, Pt. 3 - Then The Lights Went Out
Art Party, Pt. 4 - Unnatural Selection
And Now The Finale
After a moment of confusion, she spoke again, “Mr. Grimm, your head, it will be a fine addition to our collection.”
“The hell you say?” I asked.
“I want you to join us. You have potential, mostly, and I need more people like you.” She smiled evilly.
My body went numb and all I could muster was a wimpy, “Tell me, truly, do you believe in sausages?”
“The world is becoming congested with indolent filth, idiocy, and repulsive materialism. We intend to separate ourselves from the herd and save that which is worth living for: art and individuality. True freedom.” She steepled her fingers together like an arch-villain, coiled, ready to strike. “First, we need to take your head.”
Obviously she meant to chop my head off and store it in a jar. I was opposed to this idea on the basis that I am supposed to die by meteorite.
After picking my jaw off the floor I looked around the bizarre room in an effort to formulate a plan. Fight or flight? If I muscle my way past Lady Vintage I will have a hallway and stairwell full of art loving nut cases to contest. If I grab one of the weapons and attack, the others will be alerted and pour in. Sure, I could slice a few, and it may feel temporarily rewarding, but I would lose the war of attrition eventually. This left me with one option: the body sized chute in the wall. I would just have to step over and open the steel hatch before she could grab or stab me. No problem.
One thing we all know but fail to take into account is that things rarely, if ever, go according to plan. It is usually your own fault to boot. I had already forgotten my plan.
I lunged towards a large menacing broadsword mounted on a stand made of bones. My fingers wrapped around the hilt and I defiantly hoisted it into the air. Trouble was, the stand came with the sword. They were joined by bits of metal wire, similar to the ties that seal a bag of bread, and my grab of madness resulted in a humiliating domino effect of tumbling bones and medieval murder weapons. Each stand and rack fell upon the other, a few on top of me, and the din of metal colliding with the hard wooden floor was deafening.
I leapt to my feet and made a dash for the hatch. Lady Vintage had her hands over her mouth and the footfalls of the art horde reverberated through the room. Traversing the pile of bones was akin to walking through a playground ball pit, but I did the best I could high stepping over them.
I slid open the chute and took one last glance over my shoulder. Lady Vintage fumbled with the door knob. On the shelf closest to my right a human head, eyes and mouth closed, bobbled in the liquid of its storage container. It looked bored so I gave it a shove. It fell crashing to the floor and landed in such a manner, among the bones and blades, that it almost stared at me through it’s half open eye lids. To my shock the head was that of a male, and to even greater surprise, it was a head identical to that of the door man, Lady Vintage’s personal assistant.
Now that is sub-normal.
The door flung open as I dove head first into the slippery chute. I heard muffled voices behind me made silent by the slamming shut of the metal hatch-door. I careened down a long and dusty slide. The crinkling of the metal passage betrayed my location to all within the house, for sure. The ride was longer than expected, clocking in at a few seconds of terror, and I had time to ponder a few uneasy thoughts. This chute was not caked in gore and filth as I had expected it to be. Did this mean that this was not a carcass chute? Maybe it was a chute for the blood spattered weapons? Was I about to slide into a dishwasher where I would then be washed, rinsed, and sanitized? Being clean is bad enough, but a power wash!? Oh, the humanity.
I was deposited into a hard steel hatch-door. I opened it from inside, and stepped out, rubbing the stars out of my vision, into an earthy basement. Everywhere stood, and in some cases laid, naked mannequins of every shape and size. There were washing machines, for clothing, and a solitary light bulb swung from the floorboards over head. The sway fo the bulb created an insane court of shadows and chaos. Someone else was here with me, too.
“Mr. Grimm.” spake the door man.
“Spake the door man,” I answered. “Dude, that is impossible, how did you get here so fast!”
He was standing next to one of the clothes dryers. His hands were reaching for something in his jacket, and whatever it was he pulled it out and approached me with it, but I couldn’t see what he held through the mannequins. Reacting more than thinking, I pushed over the mannequins, toppling them onto my arch-nemesis, and made a break for the door. It only took two adrenalin enhanced bounds to clear the stairs and plow through the door. I slid the lock into place and hurried out of the new room I was in, the kitchen.
To my horror I found myself in the large party hall again, the art horde spewed forth from the upstairs hallway with unbridled brain-hunger in their eyes. I ran past the fake well, with the green face in it, and towards the large double doors, which I assumed led to the front door entrance hall. Luck was on my side. I burst through the double doors, into the entrance hall, where the curtains still hung, only now they were yellow, on the other side of which was the front door.
Funny, last time I was here the curtains were black.
That is when cold realization struck me like a popsicle to the eyeball: I didn’t have my keys, cell phone, and most importantly, my goggles. The door man had collected them before my electrocution x-ray. I turned and ran back into the party room. The writhing mass of art lovers tumbled down the stairs, hunger in their eyes. The basket containing my personal effects gleamed out the corner of my eye, like a shinny bald spot. I grabbed my stuff, donned my goggles, and hoisted a tray of party food high above my head.
“Eat veal!” I yelled as I tossed the snack tray at the art mongers. They ducked and scattered from the non-vegan finger food.
I sprinted out the door, jangling my keys like sleigh bells, and opened my truck. Being a delivery driver I have mastered the art of locking the doors and starting the ignition in one smooth motion. As I backed out of the parking lot the art horde stood in the doorway, defeated. Above them leaning over a balcony waved Lady Vintage. She was shouting something; curiosity got the best of me. I stopped my truck and lowered the window.
“Mr. Grimm, we weren’t going to harm you. We want to make a mold of your head; a metaphor for everlasting expression. You have shown the intellect and creativity that we admire. Join us and help to make this world beautiful once again!” She held her arms open, like an alluring siren.
“So, you aren’t trying to murder me!?” I exclaimed.
“Of course not, had you been paying attention you would have noticed that the people here at the party all had casts made of their heads too!” She implored.
Dumbfounded I asked, “You people are a crazy nuts art cult!?”
Lady Vintage gently answered, “In a manner of speaking.”
“Screw the world, I say. It gave me allergies!” With that, I was gone. Like my hairline, the house shrank to nothingness in my rearview mirror as I piloted my truck down the dark and dusty country road as fast as I could.
Moments later I awoke, sweating in my bed. I then threw back my head and maniacally cackled with insane glee.
The End.
Love,
Smiley Grimm
Art Party, Pt. 1
Art Party, Pt. 2
Art Party, Pt. 3 - Then The Lights Went Out
Art Party, Pt. 4 - Unnatural Selection
And Now The Finale
After a moment of confusion, she spoke again, “Mr. Grimm, your head, it will be a fine addition to our collection.”
“The hell you say?” I asked.
“I want you to join us. You have potential, mostly, and I need more people like you.” She smiled evilly.
My body went numb and all I could muster was a wimpy, “Tell me, truly, do you believe in sausages?”
“The world is becoming congested with indolent filth, idiocy, and repulsive materialism. We intend to separate ourselves from the herd and save that which is worth living for: art and individuality. True freedom.” She steepled her fingers together like an arch-villain, coiled, ready to strike. “First, we need to take your head.”
Not cool.
Obviously she meant to chop my head off and store it in a jar. I was opposed to this idea on the basis that I am supposed to die by meteorite.
After picking my jaw off the floor I looked around the bizarre room in an effort to formulate a plan. Fight or flight? If I muscle my way past Lady Vintage I will have a hallway and stairwell full of art loving nut cases to contest. If I grab one of the weapons and attack, the others will be alerted and pour in. Sure, I could slice a few, and it may feel temporarily rewarding, but I would lose the war of attrition eventually. This left me with one option: the body sized chute in the wall. I would just have to step over and open the steel hatch before she could grab or stab me. No problem.
One thing we all know but fail to take into account is that things rarely, if ever, go according to plan. It is usually your own fault to boot. I had already forgotten my plan.
I lunged towards a large menacing broadsword mounted on a stand made of bones. My fingers wrapped around the hilt and I defiantly hoisted it into the air. Trouble was, the stand came with the sword. They were joined by bits of metal wire, similar to the ties that seal a bag of bread, and my grab of madness resulted in a humiliating domino effect of tumbling bones and medieval murder weapons. Each stand and rack fell upon the other, a few on top of me, and the din of metal colliding with the hard wooden floor was deafening.
I leapt to my feet and made a dash for the hatch. Lady Vintage had her hands over her mouth and the footfalls of the art horde reverberated through the room. Traversing the pile of bones was akin to walking through a playground ball pit, but I did the best I could high stepping over them.
Not at all like this, but close.
I slid open the chute and took one last glance over my shoulder. Lady Vintage fumbled with the door knob. On the shelf closest to my right a human head, eyes and mouth closed, bobbled in the liquid of its storage container. It looked bored so I gave it a shove. It fell crashing to the floor and landed in such a manner, among the bones and blades, that it almost stared at me through it’s half open eye lids. To my shock the head was that of a male, and to even greater surprise, it was a head identical to that of the door man, Lady Vintage’s personal assistant.
Now that is sub-normal.
The door flung open as I dove head first into the slippery chute. I heard muffled voices behind me made silent by the slamming shut of the metal hatch-door. I careened down a long and dusty slide. The crinkling of the metal passage betrayed my location to all within the house, for sure. The ride was longer than expected, clocking in at a few seconds of terror, and I had time to ponder a few uneasy thoughts. This chute was not caked in gore and filth as I had expected it to be. Did this mean that this was not a carcass chute? Maybe it was a chute for the blood spattered weapons? Was I about to slide into a dishwasher where I would then be washed, rinsed, and sanitized? Being clean is bad enough, but a power wash!? Oh, the humanity.
I was deposited into a hard steel hatch-door. I opened it from inside, and stepped out, rubbing the stars out of my vision, into an earthy basement. Everywhere stood, and in some cases laid, naked mannequins of every shape and size. There were washing machines, for clothing, and a solitary light bulb swung from the floorboards over head. The sway fo the bulb created an insane court of shadows and chaos. Someone else was here with me, too.
“Mr. Grimm.” spake the door man.
“Spake the door man,” I answered. “Dude, that is impossible, how did you get here so fast!”
He was standing next to one of the clothes dryers. His hands were reaching for something in his jacket, and whatever it was he pulled it out and approached me with it, but I couldn’t see what he held through the mannequins. Reacting more than thinking, I pushed over the mannequins, toppling them onto my arch-nemesis, and made a break for the door. It only took two adrenalin enhanced bounds to clear the stairs and plow through the door. I slid the lock into place and hurried out of the new room I was in, the kitchen.
To my horror I found myself in the large party hall again, the art horde spewed forth from the upstairs hallway with unbridled brain-hunger in their eyes. I ran past the fake well, with the green face in it, and towards the large double doors, which I assumed led to the front door entrance hall. Luck was on my side. I burst through the double doors, into the entrance hall, where the curtains still hung, only now they were yellow, on the other side of which was the front door.
Funny, last time I was here the curtains were black.
Yellow Curtains of Doom.
That is when cold realization struck me like a popsicle to the eyeball: I didn’t have my keys, cell phone, and most importantly, my goggles. The door man had collected them before my electrocution x-ray. I turned and ran back into the party room. The writhing mass of art lovers tumbled down the stairs, hunger in their eyes. The basket containing my personal effects gleamed out the corner of my eye, like a shinny bald spot. I grabbed my stuff, donned my goggles, and hoisted a tray of party food high above my head.
“Eat veal!” I yelled as I tossed the snack tray at the art mongers. They ducked and scattered from the non-vegan finger food.
I sprinted out the door, jangling my keys like sleigh bells, and opened my truck. Being a delivery driver I have mastered the art of locking the doors and starting the ignition in one smooth motion. As I backed out of the parking lot the art horde stood in the doorway, defeated. Above them leaning over a balcony waved Lady Vintage. She was shouting something; curiosity got the best of me. I stopped my truck and lowered the window.
“Mr. Grimm, we weren’t going to harm you. We want to make a mold of your head; a metaphor for everlasting expression. You have shown the intellect and creativity that we admire. Join us and help to make this world beautiful once again!” She held her arms open, like an alluring siren.
“So, you aren’t trying to murder me!?” I exclaimed.
“Of course not, had you been paying attention you would have noticed that the people here at the party all had casts made of their heads too!” She implored.
Dumbfounded I asked, “You people are a crazy nuts art cult!?”
Lady Vintage gently answered, “In a manner of speaking.”
“Screw the world, I say. It gave me allergies!” With that, I was gone. Like my hairline, the house shrank to nothingness in my rearview mirror as I piloted my truck down the dark and dusty country road as fast as I could.
Moments later I awoke, sweating in my bed. I then threw back my head and maniacally cackled with insane glee.
That was fun.
The End.
Love,
Smiley Grimm
Friday, December 11, 2009
Art Party, Pt. 4 - Unnatural Selection
As before, be sure to read Art Party, Pt. 1, Pt. 2, and Pt. 3 before reading this one. Unless being confused is just your thing. Just saying...
I awoke just as the lights came back on, less than a minute after blacking out.
Good, I wasn't out long.
Above me strange patterns came into being and took shape on the ceiling. The shapes were puzzling to me, seemingly random scribble of black and white, although they did seem familiar. From a speaker in the one way mirror wall across the room, I kept hearing my name being called, but chose to ignore it, continuing to lay there motionless, and try to get my vision to refocus. A moment after the speaker went silent I started to recognize that which had become visible on the walls and ceiling. Somehow the static electricity ball, the flashing light, and the liquid barium in my belly had conspired to create an x-ray of my guts, which were now somehow imprinted on the walls and ceiling.
How does that work?
The floor vibrated from the stomping of many feet. Loud voices came through the door. I found my legs and stood, wearily. All around x-rays of my digestive system sparkled with the brilliance of a negative photo. I unplugged and picked up the lightning ball; prepared for battle. The bolt on the door slid rustily aside; the door was flung wide.
I stood in the center of the room, brandishing the metal sphere, as the horde of party goers flooded in. Close to a dozen of them carried writing utensils and other art implements. Surprisingly, they didn't attack, rather, they began tracing my guts x-ray and defiled it artistically. I just stood there, dumbstruck.
Behind the initial glut of rabid artists came Lady Vintage and her personal assistant, the door man.
"Mr. Grimm are you all right?" she asked.
Now that I could see her in full light, she wasn't as old as I had originally thought. Despite her fashion sense, she obviously had an advantage over women of the Victorian era: modern make-up and skin care. The combination of current product and antique clothing belied her true age, but she probably wasn't over forty.
"I'm good," I answered, "You?"
She apologized and explained how this had never happened before, but she was quick to acclaim the way the x-ray turned out. Apparently, my violent expulsion from the center of the room elongated the image and gave it a unique appearance. Her art minions were all over it.
"Well, I am going to go and make use of the facilities, excuse me." I left the room, returning to the large ornate foyer the party had previously been in, and took inventory of the newly reshaped scene.
Only half of the party remained in the dimly lit room. A few people were indulging in beverages, debating the ramifications of modernism, or gorging on deli trays. I, on the other hand, felt the need to empty the contents of my stomach into the first vomit catching contraption I could find.
The room was still dark, and feeling my way through it I found what I assumed to be a large plastic garbage bin. I grabbed the edges of it and leaned over. My haste and desperation to find something to puke into coupled with the darkness obscuring my vision resulted in me peering into something that was definitely not a garbage bin. I starred into a well, totally a fake one, and in the water at the bottom of it, starring back, was a glowing green human face.
The face smiled and shouted, "Good evening! How are you tonight?"
I answered by pouring liquid barium from my mouth into his. I couldn't tell if my vomit had actually hit him, because the water at the bottom of the well was disturbed so much that the green face was distorted beyond recognition. The green face was under the surface of the water, probably behind a protective covering, and I assumed that his voice had come from some hidden speaker somewhere. I didn't care, though, and decided to find a new place to do my business.
I climbed the stairs to the second floor balcony and ducked into a nearby hallway. Sure enough, a gang of females all spilled out of one room at the end of the hall. Across from the door they had come from was the men's room. Inside said room I cleaned myself. I even debated jumping out the window, but decided it was safer to not climb two stories.
As soon as I opened the door a disquieting gaze met mine: the eyes of Lady Vintage.
"May we speak a moment?" she asked me, with one arched eyebrow and pursed lips.
"But of course," I responded, trying to act more well mannered than I truly was.
She escorted me to the railing overlooking the now well lit party below. Once again the party was in full force as the attendees busied themselves with meaningless chatter and merry making.
Lady Vintage leaned with her back against the rails and spoke, "The crucible, what was your interpretation?"
"I thought it a nice read. The movie wasn't bad either. A suitable allegory for the ills of hearsay, misguided fervor, and religious oppression, among a slew of other applications. Miller was once married to Monroe, you know." I smiled.
"The three rooms you solved." She looked displeased.
"Oh, yeah. Well, to tell you the truth, I don't have a clue as to what that was about. There was a connection?"
Now she looked even more displeased, and spoke again, "Hellscapes, forbidden love, and painful food flavoring, you don't see a correlation between them and our mission here?"
I leaned with my elbows against the railing next to her and shook my head, "You lost me."
"It relates to our future endeavors."
I shrugged.
She crossed her arms, leaned in close, and whispered, "Who are you Mr. Grimm?"
I pulled the slip of paper that led me to this place from my pocket and said, "I am just a pizza dude that stumbled upon this note at the Laundromat. Don't ask me why, but I just had to follow this mystery to its conclusion."
She backed away from me and opened her mouth in shock, that or she was trying to determine if she could eat me in one bite, "Amazing."
She cleared her throat and called the attention of the party. The voices of the mass silenced and all looked up at us. I waved. She then relayed our conversation to the party. The mob looked awed.
Why didn't I just climb out the window when I had the chance?
In an instant Lady Vintage's personal assistant was at her side and the party goers ascended the stairs in zombie-like fashion.
"This way Mr. Grimm, please." She led me towards the doorway I had first seen her emerge from, which led to another long hallway. Behind us followed the doorman and the party. At the end of the hall was another set of stairs which took us to a third floor hallway. The doorman and party waited at the top of the stairs while Lady Vintage led me to a room. She opened the door and asked me to enter once again into a dark room.
What is with the dark rooms?
She closed the door behind her as she entered and gave life to the lights. The room was large and the walls were covered in shelves from floor to ceiling. You would have assumed it to be a library, were it not for the glass jars filled with severed human heads that occupied the spaces that should have been reserved for books. All kinds of sharp and deadly murder weapons sat on displays pretty much anywhere a human head wasn't. The displays and other assorted furniture were all made of bones, human or animal I couldn't tell, and a man-sized chute was mounted in the wall, no doubt a place to dispose of headless corpses.
I thought about how I had gotten here, which inevitably led me once again to the point where I was thinking about how I had gotten here all over again.
Luckily, Lady Vintage snapped me out of a paradoxical narrative loop by speaking. Unluckily she said, "Mr. Grimm, your head please."
To Be Continued...
I awoke just as the lights came back on, less than a minute after blacking out.
Good, I wasn't out long.
Above me strange patterns came into being and took shape on the ceiling. The shapes were puzzling to me, seemingly random scribble of black and white, although they did seem familiar. From a speaker in the one way mirror wall across the room, I kept hearing my name being called, but chose to ignore it, continuing to lay there motionless, and try to get my vision to refocus. A moment after the speaker went silent I started to recognize that which had become visible on the walls and ceiling. Somehow the static electricity ball, the flashing light, and the liquid barium in my belly had conspired to create an x-ray of my guts, which were now somehow imprinted on the walls and ceiling.
How does that work?
I'm not gutless after all!
The floor vibrated from the stomping of many feet. Loud voices came through the door. I found my legs and stood, wearily. All around x-rays of my digestive system sparkled with the brilliance of a negative photo. I unplugged and picked up the lightning ball; prepared for battle. The bolt on the door slid rustily aside; the door was flung wide.
I stood in the center of the room, brandishing the metal sphere, as the horde of party goers flooded in. Close to a dozen of them carried writing utensils and other art implements. Surprisingly, they didn't attack, rather, they began tracing my guts x-ray and defiled it artistically. I just stood there, dumbstruck.
Behind the initial glut of rabid artists came Lady Vintage and her personal assistant, the door man.
"Mr. Grimm are you all right?" she asked.
Now that I could see her in full light, she wasn't as old as I had originally thought. Despite her fashion sense, she obviously had an advantage over women of the Victorian era: modern make-up and skin care. The combination of current product and antique clothing belied her true age, but she probably wasn't over forty.
"I'm good," I answered, "You?"
She apologized and explained how this had never happened before, but she was quick to acclaim the way the x-ray turned out. Apparently, my violent expulsion from the center of the room elongated the image and gave it a unique appearance. Her art minions were all over it.
"Well, I am going to go and make use of the facilities, excuse me." I left the room, returning to the large ornate foyer the party had previously been in, and took inventory of the newly reshaped scene.
Only half of the party remained in the dimly lit room. A few people were indulging in beverages, debating the ramifications of modernism, or gorging on deli trays. I, on the other hand, felt the need to empty the contents of my stomach into the first vomit catching contraption I could find.
The room was still dark, and feeling my way through it I found what I assumed to be a large plastic garbage bin. I grabbed the edges of it and leaned over. My haste and desperation to find something to puke into coupled with the darkness obscuring my vision resulted in me peering into something that was definitely not a garbage bin. I starred into a well, totally a fake one, and in the water at the bottom of it, starring back, was a glowing green human face.
The face smiled and shouted, "Good evening! How are you tonight?"
Artist's conception.
I answered by pouring liquid barium from my mouth into his. I couldn't tell if my vomit had actually hit him, because the water at the bottom of the well was disturbed so much that the green face was distorted beyond recognition. The green face was under the surface of the water, probably behind a protective covering, and I assumed that his voice had come from some hidden speaker somewhere. I didn't care, though, and decided to find a new place to do my business.
I climbed the stairs to the second floor balcony and ducked into a nearby hallway. Sure enough, a gang of females all spilled out of one room at the end of the hall. Across from the door they had come from was the men's room. Inside said room I cleaned myself. I even debated jumping out the window, but decided it was safer to not climb two stories.
As soon as I opened the door a disquieting gaze met mine: the eyes of Lady Vintage.
"May we speak a moment?" she asked me, with one arched eyebrow and pursed lips.
"But of course," I responded, trying to act more well mannered than I truly was.
She escorted me to the railing overlooking the now well lit party below. Once again the party was in full force as the attendees busied themselves with meaningless chatter and merry making.
Lady Vintage leaned with her back against the rails and spoke, "The crucible, what was your interpretation?"
"I thought it a nice read. The movie wasn't bad either. A suitable allegory for the ills of hearsay, misguided fervor, and religious oppression, among a slew of other applications. Miller was once married to Monroe, you know." I smiled.
"Jangling the keys to the kingdom..."
"The three rooms you solved." She looked displeased.
"Oh, yeah. Well, to tell you the truth, I don't have a clue as to what that was about. There was a connection?"
Now she looked even more displeased, and spoke again, "Hellscapes, forbidden love, and painful food flavoring, you don't see a correlation between them and our mission here?"
I leaned with my elbows against the railing next to her and shook my head, "You lost me."
"It relates to our future endeavors."
I shrugged.
She crossed her arms, leaned in close, and whispered, "Who are you Mr. Grimm?"
I pulled the slip of paper that led me to this place from my pocket and said, "I am just a pizza dude that stumbled upon this note at the Laundromat. Don't ask me why, but I just had to follow this mystery to its conclusion."
She backed away from me and opened her mouth in shock, that or she was trying to determine if she could eat me in one bite, "Amazing."
She cleared her throat and called the attention of the party. The voices of the mass silenced and all looked up at us. I waved. She then relayed our conversation to the party. The mob looked awed.
Why didn't I just climb out the window when I had the chance?
I totally should have.
"This way Mr. Grimm, please." She led me towards the doorway I had first seen her emerge from, which led to another long hallway. Behind us followed the doorman and the party. At the end of the hall was another set of stairs which took us to a third floor hallway. The doorman and party waited at the top of the stairs while Lady Vintage led me to a room. She opened the door and asked me to enter once again into a dark room.
What is with the dark rooms?
She closed the door behind her as she entered and gave life to the lights. The room was large and the walls were covered in shelves from floor to ceiling. You would have assumed it to be a library, were it not for the glass jars filled with severed human heads that occupied the spaces that should have been reserved for books. All kinds of sharp and deadly murder weapons sat on displays pretty much anywhere a human head wasn't. The displays and other assorted furniture were all made of bones, human or animal I couldn't tell, and a man-sized chute was mounted in the wall, no doubt a place to dispose of headless corpses.
Everyone has a room full of these, right?
I thought about how I had gotten here, which inevitably led me once again to the point where I was thinking about how I had gotten here all over again.
Luckily, Lady Vintage snapped me out of a paradoxical narrative loop by speaking. Unluckily she said, "Mr. Grimm, your head please."
To Be Continued...
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Art Party, Pt. 3 - Then The Lights Went Out
Unless you like being confused, I recommend reading Art Party, Pt. 1, and Art Party, Pt. 2 before reading this post. It will change your life. Or not.
I infiltrated the art party with guile and subterfuge; blundered my way through a series of puzzles; became the chosen one. My next plan of action: having a heart attack.
Chosen one?
All of the most horribly predictable plot lines seem to involve prophecies and/or "the chosen one." I am no farm boy savior of galactic peace, nor am I a martial artist computer hacker with shades and cheesy acting skills. I did have goggles, though, and I slipped them on. Since it was night I wore my industrial bug-goggles, which are basically giant sunglasses, which are just dark enough to hide my eyes. With all the strange art-folk frolicking about, with their avant-garde hairstyles and excessively colorful clothing, I figured no one would question their chosen one wearing goggles. It is good to have eye protection when following a contrived destiny after all.
Unable to hide, I meandered through the party goers. Some were older, most were younger; to my surprise, fashions ran the gamut; statues stood naked and glared accusingly. It felt like I was in a zoo but I couldn't tell who was on exhibit, the art or the living.
Interestingly, the collections of art were not the main focus of attention or conversation. Really, I should have known, I thought we were at an art party, but it had become apparent I was at a party with art littered about. Humans are pack animals, and naturally, the cliches formed. Almost everyone sipped a glass of wine, or some other colorific concoction. No party is complete without alcohol, unless it is a party at my apartment where it consists of just me in my undies eating popcorn for dinner. It didn't take long for the booze to loosen the loudest of the bunch, who were leading the cliches in stories and painfully awful jokes.
Growing disinterested with fake conversations I turned to examining the art.
Obviously, I was in a exhibit for local small time talent. When I say talent I mean, less than talent. Most of the pieces I saw were as rudimentary as they come, diarrhea finger painting would have been more impressive. Certain that the less than talented artists themselves were there, shopping their craft or networking, I suspected the loud pack leaders to be the most esteemed and distinguished of them. While pretending to observe an eighteen inch statuette, I noticed the eyes in the sky: cameras hidden within potted plants, behind a wet bar, and in the helmet of a suit of armor on the second floor balcony looking down upon us. Now I knew for sure we were the ones on exhibit, the alphas and we their herd.
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Some man approached me, tried in vain to engage me in conversation about his statue, but I neglected to care, and my canned responses eventually drove him away. I moved on to investigate other points of interest.
I joined a group near a fireplace, who were talking about the nice furniture on which they rested their rumps. On a love-seat/sofa-like thing, that was probably not a love-seat or a sofa, sat a nice looking young lady by herself. Being a gentleman, I sat beside her without asking. She smiled at me then refocused her attention on the furniture conversation. She wasn't offering anything to the conversation other than an occasional giggle or a nod. No one spoke directly to her either, thus making her a good candidate for information pumping.
I have seen every James Bond movie (I am a big fan) so I know how to talk to the ladies, and retrieve intel via smooth talk and misdirection. I needed answers concerning this place and the happenings within.
"Excuse me Miss," I asked, "may I ask you something?"
She turned to me and nodded.
"So, tell me about the cameras."
Visibly shaken, she set her wine on a tray and tried to act as if she was participating with the others.
"Hey, I'm the chosen one, you can tell me." I touched her back with my hand in an effort to be less threatening, but she retreated to the other side of the large art filled room. The usual reaction to my presence, but no less disturbing.
Interesting.
Then the lights went out.
Darkness of unfathomable depth fell upon us, matched only by the chilling silence. I was no longer sure if I was on Earth, or even alive for that matter. Nothing could be seen or heard.
A stab of light pierced the black veil, the source of which was hidden to me, revealing a doorway on the second floor balcony. Emerging from the crevice came an older lady, dressed in antiquated clothing from some forgotten time, like an actress from a silent film come to life before my eyes. The dim light reflected off the placid faces and wide open eyes of the party goers. They beheld Lady Vintage as a goddess descended.
She flowed down the stairs, like trickling water over a bed or stones, and cast herself at last before me.
I stood, bowed with courtesy, and smiled.
The light above, still the only source of illumination, obscured her face to me, like the dark side of the moon, forging a silhouette equal in height to me, but far more ominous.
"You are the chosen one this evening" she asked.
That voice! From the voice message!
I replied with a grin, "Yes, indeed."
She held her open hand out to her side, at once a man stepped from the shadows, the door man from earlier, and handed her a massive goblet. He gave me a slight nod and returned to obscurity.
"Drink this," she spake with demented school marm-like authority.
Taking the proffered cup, I sampled its scent with a waft. I was familiar with the substance within, a humerus tale for another blog post, so I asked, "Barium?"
"It is for the process." Her shape twitched slightly.
With a room full of people all focused on me, the one guy who wasn't even supposed to be there, I lifted the cup to offer a toast, "To art: both good and bad."
The room echoed with muffled laughter as I took a massive drought from the large, seemingly bottomless, cup of liquid barium. The chalky liquid provided no nourishment, quenched no thirst, but elicited fits of coughing. It had been fifteen years since the last time I had to drink the stuff and I wasn't expecting to have to stomach that wicked taste again.
The door man appeared once again, like a freaking ninja, and this time he bore a basket. "Personal effects, please."
I dropped my keys, cell phone, and goggles into the basket. Once again, I felt the urge to scream and run.
This is the most absurd thing I have ever been part of. What did I get myself into!?
"This way, Mr. Grimm," commanded Vintage Lady, and she turned, leading me towards an open door in the back of the art room.
The party goers whispered and chuckled to themselves as they gathered like a zombie horde behind me, blocking any route of escape. I had no choice but to follow and joined Vintage Lady in another unlit room.
The air felt different, that of a smaller room. Vintage Lady left me there, shutting the door behind her, locking me in a room of pitch horror. It felt like an eternity had passed before her voice came back, from somewhere in front of me, the opposite side of the room as the door we entered through.
"Walk towards the light in the center of the room," said Vintage Lady. Her voice had a tinge of distortion to it, like it was being broadcast through a speaker. A heartbeat after she finished speaking, a light grew in the room.
The room was revealed to be rectangular, all the walls and ceiling were stark white, save for a one way mirror opposite the entrance. Fixed upon the mirror was a speaker: her channel of communication to this room. Off-center, rising somewhere between four and five feet from the floor, stood a thin pole, atop which was mounted a large steel sphere, similar in size to a beach ball. Coursing over it were archs of electricity, like veins of lighting. The lightning ball was the source of illumination.
"Stand on the mark in the center of the room," Vintage Lady demanded.
Like a good puppy dog, I obeyed and stood on a thick black line on the floor. Between the mirror and myself glowed the metal lightning ball. The walls reflected its light in an unexpected way, like the walls were made of porcelain.
Triple interesting.
"Try not to move," Vintage Lady said at last.
The lighting ball's glow grew in intensity, erupting in a brilliance of web-like electricity. My hair and clothing stood on end, protruding from my body; pulled toward the lightning sphere, I fought to hold my ground with ever fiber of strength.
With a bright flash, I was struck blind by unconsciousness.
I can't be sure, but as the back of my head bounced off the floor I probably said something along the lines of, "Well this is a pickle."
To be continued...
I infiltrated the art party with guile and subterfuge; blundered my way through a series of puzzles; became the chosen one. My next plan of action: having a heart attack.
Chosen one?
All of the most horribly predictable plot lines seem to involve prophecies and/or "the chosen one." I am no farm boy savior of galactic peace, nor am I a martial artist computer hacker with shades and cheesy acting skills. I did have goggles, though, and I slipped them on. Since it was night I wore my industrial bug-goggles, which are basically giant sunglasses, which are just dark enough to hide my eyes. With all the strange art-folk frolicking about, with their avant-garde hairstyles and excessively colorful clothing, I figured no one would question their chosen one wearing goggles. It is good to have eye protection when following a contrived destiny after all.
"There is no spoon."
Unable to hide, I meandered through the party goers. Some were older, most were younger; to my surprise, fashions ran the gamut; statues stood naked and glared accusingly. It felt like I was in a zoo but I couldn't tell who was on exhibit, the art or the living.
Interestingly, the collections of art were not the main focus of attention or conversation. Really, I should have known, I thought we were at an art party, but it had become apparent I was at a party with art littered about. Humans are pack animals, and naturally, the cliches formed. Almost everyone sipped a glass of wine, or some other colorific concoction. No party is complete without alcohol, unless it is a party at my apartment where it consists of just me in my undies eating popcorn for dinner. It didn't take long for the booze to loosen the loudest of the bunch, who were leading the cliches in stories and painfully awful jokes.
Growing disinterested with fake conversations I turned to examining the art.
Obviously, I was in a exhibit for local small time talent. When I say talent I mean, less than talent. Most of the pieces I saw were as rudimentary as they come, diarrhea finger painting would have been more impressive. Certain that the less than talented artists themselves were there, shopping their craft or networking, I suspected the loud pack leaders to be the most esteemed and distinguished of them. While pretending to observe an eighteen inch statuette, I noticed the eyes in the sky: cameras hidden within potted plants, behind a wet bar, and in the helmet of a suit of armor on the second floor balcony looking down upon us. Now I knew for sure we were the ones on exhibit, the alphas and we their herd.
.jpg)
Sometimes they grab you by the horns.
Some man approached me, tried in vain to engage me in conversation about his statue, but I neglected to care, and my canned responses eventually drove him away. I moved on to investigate other points of interest.
I joined a group near a fireplace, who were talking about the nice furniture on which they rested their rumps. On a love-seat/sofa-like thing, that was probably not a love-seat or a sofa, sat a nice looking young lady by herself. Being a gentleman, I sat beside her without asking. She smiled at me then refocused her attention on the furniture conversation. She wasn't offering anything to the conversation other than an occasional giggle or a nod. No one spoke directly to her either, thus making her a good candidate for information pumping.
I have seen every James Bond movie (I am a big fan) so I know how to talk to the ladies, and retrieve intel via smooth talk and misdirection. I needed answers concerning this place and the happenings within.
"Excuse me Miss," I asked, "may I ask you something?"
She turned to me and nodded.
"So, tell me about the cameras."
Visibly shaken, she set her wine on a tray and tried to act as if she was participating with the others.
"Hey, I'm the chosen one, you can tell me." I touched her back with my hand in an effort to be less threatening, but she retreated to the other side of the large art filled room. The usual reaction to my presence, but no less disturbing.
Interesting.
Then the lights went out.
"Out, out, brief candle!"
Darkness of unfathomable depth fell upon us, matched only by the chilling silence. I was no longer sure if I was on Earth, or even alive for that matter. Nothing could be seen or heard.
A stab of light pierced the black veil, the source of which was hidden to me, revealing a doorway on the second floor balcony. Emerging from the crevice came an older lady, dressed in antiquated clothing from some forgotten time, like an actress from a silent film come to life before my eyes. The dim light reflected off the placid faces and wide open eyes of the party goers. They beheld Lady Vintage as a goddess descended.
She flowed down the stairs, like trickling water over a bed or stones, and cast herself at last before me.
I stood, bowed with courtesy, and smiled.
The light above, still the only source of illumination, obscured her face to me, like the dark side of the moon, forging a silhouette equal in height to me, but far more ominous.
"You are the chosen one this evening" she asked.
That voice! From the voice message!
I replied with a grin, "Yes, indeed."
She held her open hand out to her side, at once a man stepped from the shadows, the door man from earlier, and handed her a massive goblet. He gave me a slight nod and returned to obscurity.
"Drink this," she spake with demented school marm-like authority.
Taking the proffered cup, I sampled its scent with a waft. I was familiar with the substance within, a humerus tale for another blog post, so I asked, "Barium?"
"It is for the process." Her shape twitched slightly.
Do not drink.
With a room full of people all focused on me, the one guy who wasn't even supposed to be there, I lifted the cup to offer a toast, "To art: both good and bad."
The room echoed with muffled laughter as I took a massive drought from the large, seemingly bottomless, cup of liquid barium. The chalky liquid provided no nourishment, quenched no thirst, but elicited fits of coughing. It had been fifteen years since the last time I had to drink the stuff and I wasn't expecting to have to stomach that wicked taste again.
The door man appeared once again, like a freaking ninja, and this time he bore a basket. "Personal effects, please."
I dropped my keys, cell phone, and goggles into the basket. Once again, I felt the urge to scream and run.
This is the most absurd thing I have ever been part of. What did I get myself into!?
"This way, Mr. Grimm," commanded Vintage Lady, and she turned, leading me towards an open door in the back of the art room.
The party goers whispered and chuckled to themselves as they gathered like a zombie horde behind me, blocking any route of escape. I had no choice but to follow and joined Vintage Lady in another unlit room.
The air felt different, that of a smaller room. Vintage Lady left me there, shutting the door behind her, locking me in a room of pitch horror. It felt like an eternity had passed before her voice came back, from somewhere in front of me, the opposite side of the room as the door we entered through.
"Walk towards the light in the center of the room," said Vintage Lady. Her voice had a tinge of distortion to it, like it was being broadcast through a speaker. A heartbeat after she finished speaking, a light grew in the room.
The room was revealed to be rectangular, all the walls and ceiling were stark white, save for a one way mirror opposite the entrance. Fixed upon the mirror was a speaker: her channel of communication to this room. Off-center, rising somewhere between four and five feet from the floor, stood a thin pole, atop which was mounted a large steel sphere, similar in size to a beach ball. Coursing over it were archs of electricity, like veins of lighting. The lightning ball was the source of illumination.
"Stand on the mark in the center of the room," Vintage Lady demanded.
Like a good puppy dog, I obeyed and stood on a thick black line on the floor. Between the mirror and myself glowed the metal lightning ball. The walls reflected its light in an unexpected way, like the walls were made of porcelain.
Triple interesting.
Everyone has one of these, right?
The lighting ball's glow grew in intensity, erupting in a brilliance of web-like electricity. My hair and clothing stood on end, protruding from my body; pulled toward the lightning sphere, I fought to hold my ground with ever fiber of strength.
With a bright flash, I was struck blind by unconsciousness.
I can't be sure, but as the back of my head bounced off the floor I probably said something along the lines of, "Well this is a pickle."
To be continued...
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Art Party, Pt.2
I found myself in a room full of severed heads and all manner of unusual murder weapons. Brought here by someone who seemed rather upset, my future looked grim. Let's see, do I hide behind the chair made of bones; grab one of the weapons and defend myself; try to escape by sliding through the chute in the wall? At that point the only thing I could do was recollect how I had gotten there in the first place, which creates a narrative paradox, but we'll get to that later.
A scrap of paper with a phone number and web address on it had led me to a large manor in the middle of nowhere. There is a highway not far from where I live, HWY 360, that eventually comes to an end if you follow it far enough south. This manor was tucked away in a secluded area, with no other signs of life for miles, beyond where the highway ends. We are talking dirt roads, cow pastures, junkyards, and ghost towns.
With a bit of guile, I had slipped in among a group a six who knocked on the door of the manor. I was the seventh guest, if you will. The group consisted of mostly young people, close to my age, so I felt confident that I could worm my way into this mysterious party that I wasn't even invited to.
I need no invitation.
The door was answered by a young man, who appeared a few years older than me, holding a clipboard. He was dressed in fancy clothing, looking somewhat official. The six guests before me entered, stating their names. Then my turn.
"S.G," I said. I walked past the man into a foyer with wooden floors that was cordoned off and obscured by large black curtains. The only place to walk was along a red carpet to the immediate left, into an almost pitch black room. The curtains swayed slightly, and distant murmurs came from behind them, so I knew that a large room was beyond where other humans convened.
"S.G?" the door man asked. He ran his index finger across the board trying to find who I could be, but I was already past him, following the group, and walked into the dark room. The door man walked to the entrance of the side room and winked at me saying, "I found you Mr. Grimm. Have fun." He arched his eyebrows and shut the door. I made it. What a relief.
No light came through any windows, no lamps were lit, though, a faint illumination came from under some sort of cloth hanging on the wall. Once my eyes had adjusted, I could see that the cloth was hung over a row of monitors, there were three such screens, affixed side by side on the right hand wall from the entrance to this room. The guests slid the cloth aside, a bit of curtain, and brought into view three LCD computer screens with artwork on display.
So, this is an art party?
The other people stood there, rubbing their chins, and looked puzzled. I didn't have any clue what we were doing, and hoped no one would ask me. My plan for the night was to just blend in and remain hidden. I just wanted to observe and be totally unassuming.
"Find the common theme," one of the males stated with assurance.
Looking into the dark corners of the ceiling I noticed a very subtle reflection of light. Camera lenses.
You have got to be kidding me.
This was the first time I felt slight panic and fought the urge to leave.
One of the girls called out, "Church paintings." Everyone remained silent for a moment and then continued looking clueless.
"Art from the Renaissance?" asked another. More guesses were made, but the enigmatic darkness was not appeased.
I studied the art for a moment and decided it was time to get this bad mother moving. "Hellscapes and/or Hell Panels." A buzz sounded, along with a metal click.
Hell: fun for the whole family.
On the far side of the room an open door came into view as dim lights grew brighter on the ceiling, revealing the empty room we were in and a path to the next one. The group congratulated me and proceeded into the darkness of the next room.
With a shrug, I entered.
Once again: an empty room shrouded in darkness, three LCD monitors, three works of art, and an electric eye hovering overhead.
The group observed the pieces and made some guesses, such as: "females," "young people," "dresses." All were but shots in the dark.
"Paintings with the word kiss in the title," I suggested.
"Gimmie some sugar, baby."
A door swung open and we proceeded once again into another darkened room.
The third room was the same save for one deviation: in the center of the room stood a table, upon it a diorama. Underneath the glass protecting the display was a green plant (not sure if it was real or fake) with red tomato or pepper looking growths. A dim light overhead made possible the viewing of seven angel figurines lying dead in the dirt the plant was presumably growing out of. Their mouths were blackened.
"Some kind of angel killing plant. It must be the name of the plant. Angel Slayer, or something," someone noted. We all examined the diorama closely.
In time I grew impatient as the others made their wild guesses and spat out the answer, "Satan's Kiss." Another, buzz, another pop.
What a terrible name for a pepper.
This time the new room wasn't dark. I beheld a Victorian chamber full of people, welcoming us with open arms and smiling faces. Sculptures, paintings, and all manner of strange creations filled this mystical landscape, and I found myself drawn in, seduced by the menagerie of oddities.
A man approached me as I searched for somewhere to obfuscate and revealed, "You are the only one to solve the puzzle. Everyone else, including myself, timed out. Congratulations, on becoming the chosen one tonight." He slapped my back and walked away. Leaving me alone, in a room full of weirdos.
Overhead a toy marionette on a unicycle rode across a string that ran from one balcony on the second floor to another. This was the second time I felt panic and wanted to leave.
So much for trying to be subtle and unassuming.
To Be Continued...
P.S.
I guess you will have to wait until a later date for the severed heads...
A scrap of paper with a phone number and web address on it had led me to a large manor in the middle of nowhere. There is a highway not far from where I live, HWY 360, that eventually comes to an end if you follow it far enough south. This manor was tucked away in a secluded area, with no other signs of life for miles, beyond where the highway ends. We are talking dirt roads, cow pastures, junkyards, and ghost towns.
With a bit of guile, I had slipped in among a group a six who knocked on the door of the manor. I was the seventh guest, if you will. The group consisted of mostly young people, close to my age, so I felt confident that I could worm my way into this mysterious party that I wasn't even invited to.
I need no invitation.
The door was answered by a young man, who appeared a few years older than me, holding a clipboard. He was dressed in fancy clothing, looking somewhat official. The six guests before me entered, stating their names. Then my turn.
"S.G," I said. I walked past the man into a foyer with wooden floors that was cordoned off and obscured by large black curtains. The only place to walk was along a red carpet to the immediate left, into an almost pitch black room. The curtains swayed slightly, and distant murmurs came from behind them, so I knew that a large room was beyond where other humans convened.
"S.G?" the door man asked. He ran his index finger across the board trying to find who I could be, but I was already past him, following the group, and walked into the dark room. The door man walked to the entrance of the side room and winked at me saying, "I found you Mr. Grimm. Have fun." He arched his eyebrows and shut the door. I made it. What a relief.
No light came through any windows, no lamps were lit, though, a faint illumination came from under some sort of cloth hanging on the wall. Once my eyes had adjusted, I could see that the cloth was hung over a row of monitors, there were three such screens, affixed side by side on the right hand wall from the entrance to this room. The guests slid the cloth aside, a bit of curtain, and brought into view three LCD computer screens with artwork on display.
So, this is an art party?
The other people stood there, rubbing their chins, and looked puzzled. I didn't have any clue what we were doing, and hoped no one would ask me. My plan for the night was to just blend in and remain hidden. I just wanted to observe and be totally unassuming.
"Find the common theme," one of the males stated with assurance.
Looking into the dark corners of the ceiling I noticed a very subtle reflection of light. Camera lenses.
You have got to be kidding me.
This was the first time I felt slight panic and fought the urge to leave.
One of the girls called out, "Church paintings." Everyone remained silent for a moment and then continued looking clueless.
"Art from the Renaissance?" asked another. More guesses were made, but the enigmatic darkness was not appeased.
I studied the art for a moment and decided it was time to get this bad mother moving. "Hellscapes and/or Hell Panels." A buzz sounded, along with a metal click.
Hell: fun for the whole family.
On the far side of the room an open door came into view as dim lights grew brighter on the ceiling, revealing the empty room we were in and a path to the next one. The group congratulated me and proceeded into the darkness of the next room.
With a shrug, I entered.
Once again: an empty room shrouded in darkness, three LCD monitors, three works of art, and an electric eye hovering overhead.
The group observed the pieces and made some guesses, such as: "females," "young people," "dresses." All were but shots in the dark.
"Paintings with the word kiss in the title," I suggested.
"Gimmie some sugar, baby."
A door swung open and we proceeded once again into another darkened room.
The third room was the same save for one deviation: in the center of the room stood a table, upon it a diorama. Underneath the glass protecting the display was a green plant (not sure if it was real or fake) with red tomato or pepper looking growths. A dim light overhead made possible the viewing of seven angel figurines lying dead in the dirt the plant was presumably growing out of. Their mouths were blackened.
"Some kind of angel killing plant. It must be the name of the plant. Angel Slayer, or something," someone noted. We all examined the diorama closely.
In time I grew impatient as the others made their wild guesses and spat out the answer, "Satan's Kiss." Another, buzz, another pop.
What a terrible name for a pepper.
This time the new room wasn't dark. I beheld a Victorian chamber full of people, welcoming us with open arms and smiling faces. Sculptures, paintings, and all manner of strange creations filled this mystical landscape, and I found myself drawn in, seduced by the menagerie of oddities.
A man approached me as I searched for somewhere to obfuscate and revealed, "You are the only one to solve the puzzle. Everyone else, including myself, timed out. Congratulations, on becoming the chosen one tonight." He slapped my back and walked away. Leaving me alone, in a room full of weirdos.
Overhead a toy marionette on a unicycle rode across a string that ran from one balcony on the second floor to another. This was the second time I felt panic and wanted to leave.
So much for trying to be subtle and unassuming.
To Be Continued...
P.S.
I guess you will have to wait until a later date for the severed heads...
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Art Party, Pt. 1
It is not often that I immerse myself in the world outdoors. I find it dirty and strange. Even less do I step outside while it is daytime. I can muster the strength to will through a sun lit sojourn, but I usually bring a few energy drinks for backup.
And so it was I found myself recently, called upon by my employer, working a day-shift at my job. Two hours of sleep wasn't going to cut it, so I downed a 32oz energy drink to get me through my shift. It really wasn't helping much.
Day shifts are quite different than their night counterparts. It isn't as busy, so we are tasked with preparation duties and errands to complete in order to help the night crew handle the dinner rush. While suffering from the haze of sleep deprivation I manage to take out the trash, do some dishes, and make pizza sauce. On Mondays, we have to make sure to take the cleaning rags and cook aprons to the local laundromat. I don't mind this duty at all, it gets me out of the store and that is good.
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Deadly perils, pricelss treasures.
While dumping some rags in a washing machine, I noticed a torn bit of paper curiously nestled beneath a tacky plastic orange chair. Figuring it was accidentally dropped by someone waiting for their clothes to finish, I couldn't help but pick it up and examine the discarded paper. Turning it over revealed a telephone number with a strange area code and a google web address.
Interesting.
I pocketed the paper and finished tending the laundry. On my way back to the pizza store I walked past a pay phone, and using some quarters that were supposed to be for company laundry, I called the number. I expected an actual live human to answer but was instead greeted by a recorded voice message.
The voice was female, that of a mature adult, and was colored by the rasp of years of smoking. All she said was, "Art Party. 9pm;" she gave a date and an address as well. Then, unexpectedly there came a tone. I was being recorded.
"Smiley Grimm," I said into the phone. Then hung up.
Double interesting.
The rest of my shift was so uneventful and boring I don't even remember it.
In the early evening, whilst relaxing at home, I remembered the note and decided to investigate it further. My research revealed that the number was part of some online messaging service. I also looked up the address she gave me and was shocked to learn that the supposed location of the "art party" was less than a half-hour away from my residence. Thank you Internet.
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Thanks, buddy.
Again turning to the interwebs, I was able to glean that Art Parties are as nebulous an activity as you probably guessed. They come in all varieties, from the conservative to the extreme, from the stinking wealthy socialites to the stinky dirty college kids.
I figured since I had already given my name to the recording, I would have to attend. I had two days to prepare.
"This could be fun."
One minor issue that could be troublesome is that I have never been to a party in any capacity before, excluding adolescent birthdays. I don't understand social paradigms, I fail at interaction, and I have no taste, all of which work against me on a daily basis. The one advantage I would have: no one would know me, presumably.
I had to start with what I did know: the recorded voice was of a lady who was definitely over the age of thirty five, and she had smoked at least one cigarette in her day. This meant that she was social, possibly distinguished, and didn't think she was too old for parties. An older lady who was enjoying, possibly hosting, a pretentious social gathering of some sort isn't too common in my neighborhood. It was wrong of me to be judgemental already, so I stepped back and tried to remain objective. It was just a party. It was just a party. It was just a party.
At first my plan was to assume what type of people would be attending, and disguise myself as one of them. That would be too difficult, because I had no clue what to expect, so I decided to make a character out of myself instead. I would be a British-alt-pop-rock loving college art student who loved intellectual meetings.
Luckily Wal-Mart afforded me some cheap arty clothes. I already had some cheap sneakers, which would help accentuate my individuality. I don't have hair, which shaved off having to worry about getting it styled. I researched art pieces online, but gave that up rather quickly because it donned on me that I was probably going to be looking at local creations. Hopefully, I had the tools for at least moderate success.
The day came.
As the night grew deep, I made the drive. According to the map I printed the house was somewhere beyond where the highway ended, tucked away in a nether region of the city. I followed a long lonesome gravel road that was hemmed in by barbed wire fences and mailboxes that leaned out like beggar hands. As I crested a hill I could see bright red tail lights gleaming in the darkness like the evil red eyes of a shrouded demon clown. It came from a car that was parking in the roundish driveway of a large three-story house atop a foreboding hill.
I wasn't sure when it happened, but I had driven into Psycho and looked upon Bates Manor. Sure enough, that was my destination.
"Mother, no!"
Driving through an open gate, I crossed the cattle guard, and made my way around the circular gravel driveway to a row of at least a dozen automobiles. I was the only one who drove a truck.
Looking to the front door I beheld a group of six, evenly split between male and female, enter through a large wooden door.
I didn't want to approach and enter alone, I needed to be crafty in order to infiltrate, so I flipped open my phone and faked a conversation while pacing near my truck. It didn't take long for another car to arrive, with another gaggle of six; when they knocked on the door, I joined their group as I ended my faux call. I smiled.
The door opened and we began to file in. Now the hard part...
To Be Continued...
And so it was I found myself recently, called upon by my employer, working a day-shift at my job. Two hours of sleep wasn't going to cut it, so I downed a 32oz energy drink to get me through my shift. It really wasn't helping much.
Day shifts are quite different than their night counterparts. It isn't as busy, so we are tasked with preparation duties and errands to complete in order to help the night crew handle the dinner rush. While suffering from the haze of sleep deprivation I manage to take out the trash, do some dishes, and make pizza sauce. On Mondays, we have to make sure to take the cleaning rags and cook aprons to the local laundromat. I don't mind this duty at all, it gets me out of the store and that is good.
.jpg)
Deadly perils, pricelss treasures.
While dumping some rags in a washing machine, I noticed a torn bit of paper curiously nestled beneath a tacky plastic orange chair. Figuring it was accidentally dropped by someone waiting for their clothes to finish, I couldn't help but pick it up and examine the discarded paper. Turning it over revealed a telephone number with a strange area code and a google web address.
Interesting.
I pocketed the paper and finished tending the laundry. On my way back to the pizza store I walked past a pay phone, and using some quarters that were supposed to be for company laundry, I called the number. I expected an actual live human to answer but was instead greeted by a recorded voice message.
The voice was female, that of a mature adult, and was colored by the rasp of years of smoking. All she said was, "Art Party. 9pm;" she gave a date and an address as well. Then, unexpectedly there came a tone. I was being recorded.
"Smiley Grimm," I said into the phone. Then hung up.
Double interesting.
The rest of my shift was so uneventful and boring I don't even remember it.
In the early evening, whilst relaxing at home, I remembered the note and decided to investigate it further. My research revealed that the number was part of some online messaging service. I also looked up the address she gave me and was shocked to learn that the supposed location of the "art party" was less than a half-hour away from my residence. Thank you Internet.
.jpg)
Thanks, buddy.
Again turning to the interwebs, I was able to glean that Art Parties are as nebulous an activity as you probably guessed. They come in all varieties, from the conservative to the extreme, from the stinking wealthy socialites to the stinky dirty college kids.
I figured since I had already given my name to the recording, I would have to attend. I had two days to prepare.
"This could be fun."
One minor issue that could be troublesome is that I have never been to a party in any capacity before, excluding adolescent birthdays. I don't understand social paradigms, I fail at interaction, and I have no taste, all of which work against me on a daily basis. The one advantage I would have: no one would know me, presumably.
I had to start with what I did know: the recorded voice was of a lady who was definitely over the age of thirty five, and she had smoked at least one cigarette in her day. This meant that she was social, possibly distinguished, and didn't think she was too old for parties. An older lady who was enjoying, possibly hosting, a pretentious social gathering of some sort isn't too common in my neighborhood. It was wrong of me to be judgemental already, so I stepped back and tried to remain objective. It was just a party. It was just a party. It was just a party.
At first my plan was to assume what type of people would be attending, and disguise myself as one of them. That would be too difficult, because I had no clue what to expect, so I decided to make a character out of myself instead. I would be a British-alt-pop-rock loving college art student who loved intellectual meetings.
Luckily Wal-Mart afforded me some cheap arty clothes. I already had some cheap sneakers, which would help accentuate my individuality. I don't have hair, which shaved off having to worry about getting it styled. I researched art pieces online, but gave that up rather quickly because it donned on me that I was probably going to be looking at local creations. Hopefully, I had the tools for at least moderate success.
The day came.
As the night grew deep, I made the drive. According to the map I printed the house was somewhere beyond where the highway ended, tucked away in a nether region of the city. I followed a long lonesome gravel road that was hemmed in by barbed wire fences and mailboxes that leaned out like beggar hands. As I crested a hill I could see bright red tail lights gleaming in the darkness like the evil red eyes of a shrouded demon clown. It came from a car that was parking in the roundish driveway of a large three-story house atop a foreboding hill.
I wasn't sure when it happened, but I had driven into Psycho and looked upon Bates Manor. Sure enough, that was my destination.
"Mother, no!"
Driving through an open gate, I crossed the cattle guard, and made my way around the circular gravel driveway to a row of at least a dozen automobiles. I was the only one who drove a truck.
Looking to the front door I beheld a group of six, evenly split between male and female, enter through a large wooden door.
I didn't want to approach and enter alone, I needed to be crafty in order to infiltrate, so I flipped open my phone and faked a conversation while pacing near my truck. It didn't take long for another car to arrive, with another gaggle of six; when they knocked on the door, I joined their group as I ended my faux call. I smiled.
The door opened and we began to file in. Now the hard part...
To Be Continued...
Friday, November 20, 2009
5 Gnarly Ways To Die
Admit it. You have thought about your passing at least a hand full of times. There are situations when you may have even questioned if you are still alive, such as: standing in a long line at the DMV, attending a wedding, or watching a chick-flick with a hot babe just so you can later "seal the deal." In those cases your soul probably left your body, but sadly, you are still breathing. Death is a fascinating topic and one we will all have to address at some point. Unless you are a robot.
Ask around, a majority of folks can tell you how they want to go: of old age in their sleep. Boring! Come on, grow a pair. I have compiled a list of the ways in which I would like to leave this mortal coil. Any one of these would make me happy. That is, if I somehow was aware of how I passed.
Let's start this off with something sick and violent, which is to say, the best way!
#5 Crash In Unfriendly Country
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Barf bags for the living and the dead!
This method of catching a bad case of death is by no means sudden. First, you have to suffer airport parking, airport security, and the fat guy stealing the armrest next to you. Then explosions send you, and the other pansies, screaming as your flaming aluminum bucket plummets into the hot foreboding jungles of some foreign country that hates Americans, like the country of Earth for example.
You crawl forth from the wreckage, probably with a broken bone or four, and discover the fat armrest thief is still alive. So you kill him. Then, as you raise his severed arms to the sky in victory, a bunch of weird bone-nosed natives spill out of the trees and toss a net on your head. Could it get worse? It seems they worship fat guys and they think you killed their god. They are not pleased. Yeah, it got worse.
As you began to roast over an open flame a special tactical military force parachutes in and AK-47s everyone, everyone but you. Next you find yourself detained in a foreign prison, sharing cells with smelly fat guys who "love" Americans. Somehow you put two and two together and realize that you are a political prisoner. They began torturing you and video taping you confessing to anything they want you to. You'll say anything to end the torture and return to your cell. In time you enjoy the fat guys.
After getting your throat slit and being mounted on a pole, videos are released worldwide of you admitting to being a terrorist, hating your infidel mother, and enjoying chick-flicks.
The plus side? When your life flashes before your eyes it will seem like a good life, no matter what, by comparison.
#4 Smothered By Popcorn, Non-Buttered.
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Death incarnate.
Dating is hell. We dudes are always looking to impress possible mates. It may be near impossible for some, such as I, to even get a lady to talk to you, and once you do the true crucible begins. Chicks dig a guy with muscles, money, and malleability. The more you lack in one area the more you have to overcompensate in another.
You buy tickets to the movies, a terrible chick-flick for sure, and then decide to really show off. You spend way too much on junk food at the snack bar, and then try to lift way too much of it by yourself despite her offerings of assistance.
"Don't worry, I got this."
Just as you wobble past the condiments your back slips a disc, you stumble over, tumbling headfirst into the trash can near the straw dispenser. Your arms are trapped at your side, legs flail helpless in the air, and the scalding hot popcorn you were once carrying too much of clogs your nose, ears, and mouth. You have no choice but to breath in movie theater garbage and food that is probably months old. In trash no one can hear you scream.
Your date decides to abandon you dying upside down in a pit of filth, instead of suffering your embarrassing presence any longer.
The plus side? Your family makes a million from the lawsuits and "My Son/Brother Choked On Popcorn" stickers and t-shirts.
#3 Failing To Defuse A Bomb
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Explosive fun!
While standing in line at the DMV you contemplate suicide but decide to post on twitter instead. All around you are people who can't speak English, yet manage a license hassle-free, crying babies, and some English speaking dude got angry and dropped a deuce in the middle of the floor in protest of his mistreatment.
Finally, you are next in line and the pointless punishment that is the DMV is almost over. Then the lights go out.
People are screaming, elderly are trampled in a mad rush to the doors, and as the red emergency lights snap on, painting everything communist, everyone realizes that a terrorist plot has just hatched. Actually, two terrorist plots if you include the need for the DMV to begin with.
The doors are locked and a bomb is revealed in the center of the room, near the poo that never got cleaned.
"Don't worry, I got this."
You saunter over, pluck the red wire, as the movies have taught you, and the whole place goes Nagasaki.
The plus side? No more DMV. You will be a hero in your city. Until the next one is built.
#2 Wrestle A Baby From The Mouth Of A Polar Bear
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"I'll be seeing you, pal."
Surely you frequent the Arctic. No? Surely the Arctic wildlife frequent you.
You are attending the birthday party of your friend's baby child. What fun...
All the females laugh, gossip, and spray their scent on everything while the guys try to huddle up and hide. Soon the child will be attempting the blowing out of candles, a redundant practice in fruitless futility, and then you will have to watch in terror as your shoddy gift is chucked across the room and everyone blames you for making the baby cry. The place you and your male brethren choose to hide is outside, by the pool.
You are wondering if it is the beer or the desire for death that has caused the polar bear to manifest in the pool. What is it doing here? Why has it come this far? Wait a second, I don't drink!
Out of the corner of your eye you notice some angry females shaking their ovaries at you. The female murder-squad grows in number as they search for their "belongings" (a.k.a. dudes). They are shocked and run away in fear at the sudden sight of the polar bear and call off their inquisition. Before seeking the relative safety of the indoors you decide to snap a few quick cell phone pics of the bear.
"This will look awesome on facebook!"
Unfortunately, the antique car horn, the one that goes aw-ooo-gah, is the alert tone that sounds when you take your first cell picture. It is well documented in science that polar bears find that sound offensive. So it rampages.
In the ensuing bloody melee you manage to rescue the birthday boy from the maw of the angry bear. The polar bear dies from a cake knife to the ear, but you die from a bear claw to the every part of you.
The plus side? That shoddy toy you bought for the kid you don't even know, the set of small plastic building blocks (a.k.a. hopeful choking hazard), won't be thrown away. It will be kept as a solemn reminder of your heroic sacrifice. Then it will cause the death of the baby you saved, when it gums it in an effort to aid the growth of teeth. Revenge is sweet.
#1 Meteorite Decapitation
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"I'll have what he's having, please."
Only two people on record have ever been struck by a meteorite. Some old lady sitting in her living room and a little German boy. What luck that they both survived!
I like to go jogging. Whenever I need an ego boost it is fun to go jog at the park. I am the only skinny guy there and it is nice to be glowered at by all the fat people jiggling down the paths. Sometimes, when there is a large herd of them stampeding together, the ground shakes, and it is what I imagine life in California to be like. I am not sure, but I think they either hate me or want to eat me. Maybe they want to angrily eat me in a hateful manner. Eh, whatever.
After lapping them all for the twentieth time it would really get their goat if they were witness to the luckiest guy in history: the one dude to take a meteorite to the head.
All I am asking for is one the size of a softball. Just big enough to remove my head and leave a small crater, or as I like to call it, a ready made grave.
The plus side? Everything. This is the best way to go in my opinion. I wouldn't see it coming. I wouldn't feel a thing, and it would be historic. If the meteorite carried some space-plague then that would be even better, like a gift that keeps on giving.
Love,
Smiley Grimm
Ask around, a majority of folks can tell you how they want to go: of old age in their sleep. Boring! Come on, grow a pair. I have compiled a list of the ways in which I would like to leave this mortal coil. Any one of these would make me happy. That is, if I somehow was aware of how I passed.
Let's start this off with something sick and violent, which is to say, the best way!
#5 Crash In Unfriendly Country
.jpg)
Barf bags for the living and the dead!
This method of catching a bad case of death is by no means sudden. First, you have to suffer airport parking, airport security, and the fat guy stealing the armrest next to you. Then explosions send you, and the other pansies, screaming as your flaming aluminum bucket plummets into the hot foreboding jungles of some foreign country that hates Americans, like the country of Earth for example.
You crawl forth from the wreckage, probably with a broken bone or four, and discover the fat armrest thief is still alive. So you kill him. Then, as you raise his severed arms to the sky in victory, a bunch of weird bone-nosed natives spill out of the trees and toss a net on your head. Could it get worse? It seems they worship fat guys and they think you killed their god. They are not pleased. Yeah, it got worse.
As you began to roast over an open flame a special tactical military force parachutes in and AK-47s everyone, everyone but you. Next you find yourself detained in a foreign prison, sharing cells with smelly fat guys who "love" Americans. Somehow you put two and two together and realize that you are a political prisoner. They began torturing you and video taping you confessing to anything they want you to. You'll say anything to end the torture and return to your cell. In time you enjoy the fat guys.
After getting your throat slit and being mounted on a pole, videos are released worldwide of you admitting to being a terrorist, hating your infidel mother, and enjoying chick-flicks.
The plus side? When your life flashes before your eyes it will seem like a good life, no matter what, by comparison.
#4 Smothered By Popcorn, Non-Buttered.
.jpg)
Death incarnate.
Dating is hell. We dudes are always looking to impress possible mates. It may be near impossible for some, such as I, to even get a lady to talk to you, and once you do the true crucible begins. Chicks dig a guy with muscles, money, and malleability. The more you lack in one area the more you have to overcompensate in another.
You buy tickets to the movies, a terrible chick-flick for sure, and then decide to really show off. You spend way too much on junk food at the snack bar, and then try to lift way too much of it by yourself despite her offerings of assistance.
"Don't worry, I got this."
Just as you wobble past the condiments your back slips a disc, you stumble over, tumbling headfirst into the trash can near the straw dispenser. Your arms are trapped at your side, legs flail helpless in the air, and the scalding hot popcorn you were once carrying too much of clogs your nose, ears, and mouth. You have no choice but to breath in movie theater garbage and food that is probably months old. In trash no one can hear you scream.
Your date decides to abandon you dying upside down in a pit of filth, instead of suffering your embarrassing presence any longer.
The plus side? Your family makes a million from the lawsuits and "My Son/Brother Choked On Popcorn" stickers and t-shirts.
#3 Failing To Defuse A Bomb
.jpg)
Explosive fun!
While standing in line at the DMV you contemplate suicide but decide to post on twitter instead. All around you are people who can't speak English, yet manage a license hassle-free, crying babies, and some English speaking dude got angry and dropped a deuce in the middle of the floor in protest of his mistreatment.
Finally, you are next in line and the pointless punishment that is the DMV is almost over. Then the lights go out.
People are screaming, elderly are trampled in a mad rush to the doors, and as the red emergency lights snap on, painting everything communist, everyone realizes that a terrorist plot has just hatched. Actually, two terrorist plots if you include the need for the DMV to begin with.
The doors are locked and a bomb is revealed in the center of the room, near the poo that never got cleaned.
"Don't worry, I got this."
You saunter over, pluck the red wire, as the movies have taught you, and the whole place goes Nagasaki.
The plus side? No more DMV. You will be a hero in your city. Until the next one is built.
#2 Wrestle A Baby From The Mouth Of A Polar Bear
.jpg)
"I'll be seeing you, pal."
Surely you frequent the Arctic. No? Surely the Arctic wildlife frequent you.
You are attending the birthday party of your friend's baby child. What fun...
All the females laugh, gossip, and spray their scent on everything while the guys try to huddle up and hide. Soon the child will be attempting the blowing out of candles, a redundant practice in fruitless futility, and then you will have to watch in terror as your shoddy gift is chucked across the room and everyone blames you for making the baby cry. The place you and your male brethren choose to hide is outside, by the pool.
You are wondering if it is the beer or the desire for death that has caused the polar bear to manifest in the pool. What is it doing here? Why has it come this far? Wait a second, I don't drink!
Out of the corner of your eye you notice some angry females shaking their ovaries at you. The female murder-squad grows in number as they search for their "belongings" (a.k.a. dudes). They are shocked and run away in fear at the sudden sight of the polar bear and call off their inquisition. Before seeking the relative safety of the indoors you decide to snap a few quick cell phone pics of the bear.
"This will look awesome on facebook!"
Unfortunately, the antique car horn, the one that goes aw-ooo-gah, is the alert tone that sounds when you take your first cell picture. It is well documented in science that polar bears find that sound offensive. So it rampages.
In the ensuing bloody melee you manage to rescue the birthday boy from the maw of the angry bear. The polar bear dies from a cake knife to the ear, but you die from a bear claw to the every part of you.
The plus side? That shoddy toy you bought for the kid you don't even know, the set of small plastic building blocks (a.k.a. hopeful choking hazard), won't be thrown away. It will be kept as a solemn reminder of your heroic sacrifice. Then it will cause the death of the baby you saved, when it gums it in an effort to aid the growth of teeth. Revenge is sweet.
#1 Meteorite Decapitation
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"I'll have what he's having, please."
Only two people on record have ever been struck by a meteorite. Some old lady sitting in her living room and a little German boy. What luck that they both survived!
I like to go jogging. Whenever I need an ego boost it is fun to go jog at the park. I am the only skinny guy there and it is nice to be glowered at by all the fat people jiggling down the paths. Sometimes, when there is a large herd of them stampeding together, the ground shakes, and it is what I imagine life in California to be like. I am not sure, but I think they either hate me or want to eat me. Maybe they want to angrily eat me in a hateful manner. Eh, whatever.
After lapping them all for the twentieth time it would really get their goat if they were witness to the luckiest guy in history: the one dude to take a meteorite to the head.
All I am asking for is one the size of a softball. Just big enough to remove my head and leave a small crater, or as I like to call it, a ready made grave.
The plus side? Everything. This is the best way to go in my opinion. I wouldn't see it coming. I wouldn't feel a thing, and it would be historic. If the meteorite carried some space-plague then that would be even better, like a gift that keeps on giving.
Love,
Smiley Grimm
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Zombie Stomper
One of these days there will be an apocalypse, it is fact. We could kill each other off in a nuclear holocaust, or a meteor erases us in a plum of dust and fire, or dinosaur ghosts could return and slough off their dino-ghost-fleas onto us giving us dino-ghost-flea-ghost-diseases. You just never know! If none of that happens, though, then we will have our sun going supernova to look forward to. Actually, before that even happens it will expand, growing in size as it gains energy, like the taking of a deep breath, and that expansion will have killed us off long before the supernova, but you get the point. At the very least, and I suppose as a best case scenario, our atmosphere will deteriorate as Earth's temperature rises, evaporating the oceans, blanketing everything in sand and dust, and at that point we may as well be living on Mars. Doesn't matter, humanity will be dead long before that.
Hopefully you will make it out alive. There must be at least one survivor so that someone can witness our sun boil us to death.
Love,
Smiley Grimm
"You are looking good tonight. Good and tasty! Woka-woka-woka."
If I had a vote I would opt for a Zombie Apocalypse. Think about it, man! We get to do what we have always wanted to do: kill, eat, and fit in with the majority. Zombies are indiscriminate towards life and each other. They kill and eat anything and anyone not a zombie; all ethnicities and religions are fair game and tasty. It is ironic how zombies crave the one thing there is very little of on this planet: brains. I digress...
In the event of a Zombie Apocalypse there would inevitably be survivors trying to seek a safe haven from the rabid hordes of brain eaters. Until you are bitten, infected, and transformed into the undead, you can count yourself as a survivor. Surely you would want to stay non-zombie as long as possible, but face it, sooner or later you are dead meat. Unless shoe leather is your only method of escape, you are going to need tools to get you from the hellish yet appetizing smorgasbord that is your neighborhood.
What weapons and supplies would you take with you during your urban flight? Assuming zombies die like they do in the movies there are a plethora of weapons to get you through a few waves of undead. To wit:
Guns. Guns are good and powerful. They can dispatch a foe from afar, they can obliterate at close range, and they intimidate any non-infected humans who are looking for an easy "grape" minus the "g." On the other hand, they require ammo, which in turn is heavy and takes space in your survival backpack. You only have so many bullets until you have to throw your gun at your foe. "You talking to me?"
In the event of a Zombie Apocalypse there would inevitably be survivors trying to seek a safe haven from the rabid hordes of brain eaters. Until you are bitten, infected, and transformed into the undead, you can count yourself as a survivor. Surely you would want to stay non-zombie as long as possible, but face it, sooner or later you are dead meat. Unless shoe leather is your only method of escape, you are going to need tools to get you from the hellish yet appetizing smorgasbord that is your neighborhood.
What weapons and supplies would you take with you during your urban flight? Assuming zombies die like they do in the movies there are a plethora of weapons to get you through a few waves of undead. To wit:
Guns. Guns are good and powerful. They can dispatch a foe from afar, they can obliterate at close range, and they intimidate any non-infected humans who are looking for an easy "grape" minus the "g." On the other hand, they require ammo, which in turn is heavy and takes space in your survival backpack. You only have so many bullets until you have to throw your gun at your foe. "You talking to me?"
Real guns are ideal.
Blades. Blades are neat and near-infinite. With a sword you can slash, impale, and de-head for as long as you have breath in your lungs. With a knife you can pierce skulls and commit wicked sneak attacks. They are light weight, easily concealable, and can open CD and DVD cases when not being used as a zombie-dicer. Trouble is, unless you throw your blade you can only slay the infected at close range. That and you only can kill one, or maybe two if you are good, foes at a time. If you are surrounded then you may as well commit one last thrust to seppuku.
Flamethrowers are cool, but you aren't going to find them at Wal-Mart. Unless you are a terrorist you probably won't find RPG launchers either.
I would go with an armament of two guns, one knife, one sword.
Non-weapon supplies? Food is good. Water is even more good. You can find candy bars and fruitcake everywhere, but it will be water that vanishes faster than positive presidential approval ratings. You can't drink from gutters or urinals, that stuff will kill you, as will liquids from car radiators. Gallon jugs are heavy and unwieldy. 20oz bottles are good but don't last too long. If the zombies don't get you, expect thirst to end your life in only a few days, maybe a week at most.
Remember, non-infected mammals are a threat as well. Humans are evil, manipulative, and opportunistic, heck we wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for our rampant fornicating and enslavement. Don't forget packs of feral dogs, rabid kittens, and streets full of hamsters in plastic rolling balls. In the early hours of a Zombie Apocalypse chaos, confusion, misinformation, and hysteria will be the death of many long before an infected bite.
Let us assume then that wherever you are going isn't too far away. If your destination is more than a week away, screw it. Truth be told, stealth is your best weapon, if the zombies don't know you are there, they wont come after you. So, don't let them see you.
Here is what I am thinking:
Primary Weapon: Hunting Rifle. Pick off your obstacles from afar. Waste no more than one shot per zombie. Stay moving, quietly, to avoid any incoming zombies that may have heard the report. 50 bullets.
Secondary Weapon: Handgun. Surely, you will find yourself face to face with a nasty brain muncher at some point. I suggest stopping power. Desert Eagle would be nice, though, hard to find. Maybe a 357. Once they are within pistol range make sure they don't stay mobile for long. Finish the job and get moving. Now. 4 spare clips, or 100 bullets.
Sword: Ninja-to. It is small, usually no longer than 22' inches and sharp enough to pierce even the dry leather of Keith Richards' gnarly facial skin. Use it to stab and aim for the neck or mouth. Be quick, silent, and approach stealthily from behind. This is a handy tool when other zombies are near and you don't want them to know you are there.
Knife: Commando Knife. These things are sweet. You can get them at any army-navy store, I have one. They come with a crappy compass, wire for fishing, matches, and a butt wipe to keep the poo itch away for at least a few hours. Essentially they are several handy tools in one. May as well consolidate while you still can. It is the ultimate last ditch weapon. Other than a back-pack nuke.
Other. Snicker's Marathon bars are good and surprisingly filling. Fruit cups don't have to be kept cold. Two or three 20oz bottles of water are light-weight, refillable, and can help you last up to a week fresh. You aren't going too far, so ration your goods. Matches if it is cold. Wear heavy to medium thick clothing to help shield you from bites and weather. Forget about make-up, razors, or deodorant. Take tampons. Zombies can smell blood and you don't want to leave a "trail."
Also, if you have trouble coming to grips with shooting/chopping people just try to remember that they are already dead. You aren't killing them, you are "resting" them. If that doesn't help then try to imagine that all zombies are Bin Laden, Hitler, or Paris Hilton.
Flamethrowers are cool, but you aren't going to find them at Wal-Mart. Unless you are a terrorist you probably won't find RPG launchers either.
I would go with an armament of two guns, one knife, one sword.
Non-weapon supplies? Food is good. Water is even more good. You can find candy bars and fruitcake everywhere, but it will be water that vanishes faster than positive presidential approval ratings. You can't drink from gutters or urinals, that stuff will kill you, as will liquids from car radiators. Gallon jugs are heavy and unwieldy. 20oz bottles are good but don't last too long. If the zombies don't get you, expect thirst to end your life in only a few days, maybe a week at most.
Remember, non-infected mammals are a threat as well. Humans are evil, manipulative, and opportunistic, heck we wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for our rampant fornicating and enslavement. Don't forget packs of feral dogs, rabid kittens, and streets full of hamsters in plastic rolling balls. In the early hours of a Zombie Apocalypse chaos, confusion, misinformation, and hysteria will be the death of many long before an infected bite.
Let us assume then that wherever you are going isn't too far away. If your destination is more than a week away, screw it. Truth be told, stealth is your best weapon, if the zombies don't know you are there, they wont come after you. So, don't let them see you.
Here is what I am thinking:
Primary Weapon: Hunting Rifle. Pick off your obstacles from afar. Waste no more than one shot per zombie. Stay moving, quietly, to avoid any incoming zombies that may have heard the report. 50 bullets.
Secondary Weapon: Handgun. Surely, you will find yourself face to face with a nasty brain muncher at some point. I suggest stopping power. Desert Eagle would be nice, though, hard to find. Maybe a 357. Once they are within pistol range make sure they don't stay mobile for long. Finish the job and get moving. Now. 4 spare clips, or 100 bullets.
Sword: Ninja-to. It is small, usually no longer than 22' inches and sharp enough to pierce even the dry leather of Keith Richards' gnarly facial skin. Use it to stab and aim for the neck or mouth. Be quick, silent, and approach stealthily from behind. This is a handy tool when other zombies are near and you don't want them to know you are there.
Knife: Commando Knife. These things are sweet. You can get them at any army-navy store, I have one. They come with a crappy compass, wire for fishing, matches, and a butt wipe to keep the poo itch away for at least a few hours. Essentially they are several handy tools in one. May as well consolidate while you still can. It is the ultimate last ditch weapon. Other than a back-pack nuke.
Other. Snicker's Marathon bars are good and surprisingly filling. Fruit cups don't have to be kept cold. Two or three 20oz bottles of water are light-weight, refillable, and can help you last up to a week fresh. You aren't going too far, so ration your goods. Matches if it is cold. Wear heavy to medium thick clothing to help shield you from bites and weather. Forget about make-up, razors, or deodorant. Take tampons. Zombies can smell blood and you don't want to leave a "trail."
Also, if you have trouble coming to grips with shooting/chopping people just try to remember that they are already dead. You aren't killing them, you are "resting" them. If that doesn't help then try to imagine that all zombies are Bin Laden, Hitler, or Paris Hilton.
Paris Bin Hitler.
Hopefully you will make it out alive. There must be at least one survivor so that someone can witness our sun boil us to death.
Love,
Smiley Grimm
Saturday, November 14, 2009
You gotta cut down trees to build a paperhouse
Assuming we humans are all superficially similar, beyond basic survival necessities, in that we fill the time between birth and death with stimulating activities (busy work), you should understand if I tell you that I have a cat in my head that is both alive and dead. Call me Schrodinger, but I am pretty certain we all have cats in our heads. With confidence in your comprehension we can ruminate on a long time nuerostimulus of mine: Flicker Cogitation (FC).
Both alive and dead
This hobby dates back as far my memories can take me. My earliest memory is of me sitting in a high-chair smearing spaghetti-o's all over my face while my family watched and smiled. We lived in a small apartment, second floor, and were all huddled close in the dinning room. I was too young to speak, or eat properly for that matter, but for some reason that experience was burned into my brain. As I later learned, I wasn't even a year old at the time and most people don't have memories of that age. What significance does that brief memory hold? You can assign pretty much everything in life to some purpose, which invariably leads to procreation or, at the very least, personal well being. It is our programming.
As I grew older, this memory stayed with me, often appearing in flickers of sudden recollection brought on for no apparent reason. A random invasion of pointless remembrance. Sometime, I would even lose sleep over it. I am sure some of the details have been lost to time and my imagination has filled in the blanks, but why would remembering that help me or the human race in any way? That is just one example, I have thousands more.
Mostly, these Flicker Cogitations come from something that I experienced only briefly, such as a song on the radio that I never forget after only one listen, or a picture I glanced at in passing, a story I heard a piece of, and on and on. The weird part is that at the time of the experience these events hold almost no meaning to me. We are witness to hundreds of pointless things everyday, why do some stay with us? Maybe I don't understand their importance until later? Maybe I am a compulsive completionist? Whatever the case, they can haunt me. Once they haunt me, they interfere with my dreams, and that aggravates me to no end. My dreams are my castle and I don't want anything to bother that realm.
Once this downward spiral begins I feel compelled to reverse it. I have to trace the memories, rediscover them, rewind time, and confront them. I always do, though, I never find out why they are special to me. They remain utterly pointless. On the other hand, once each thread of Flicker Cogitation has been followed to its conclusion, I feel a sense of relief and gratification. Why? I gave up on trying to understand why. No answer has felt satisfactory to me, so who cares? I just roll with it. Whatever. Sometimes its fun to fish with simulacrum instead of worms. Whoa, that is a wicked cool band name: Simulacrum of Worms.
My latest series of FC adventures have involved movies.
The year was 1987, I was bouncing around the house, like any six-year-old, and a commercial came on television for a movie. This movie trailer depicted only a few things that I can remember: a man with a mustache, a girl jumping into a mirror, and a priest throwing a fire-ax. For some reason those images stayed with me all the way to 2009.
Recently, I was at my place of employment, asking co-workers if they had seen any movies that featured those scenes; no one had any clue what I was talking about, probably attributing my silly questions to pizza dementia. It's real. Google it.
A few days later, I was at Wal-Mart buying a video game when I noticed a $15 collection of four John Carpenter (one of my fave directors) movies packaged together in one two-disc DVD set. I flipped the box around to examine the back and beheld a picture of a black dude looking into a mirror. The same freaking mirror from that movie trailer twenty two years ago! Crap my pants! Dead cats rejoice; it took me twenty two years to figure it out. I bought the DVD collection and did a happy-dance...when no one was looking.
The movie is : Prince of Darkness. Check it out, it is awesome.
So good.
1988: a slightly older Smiley was bouncing around the house while the family prepared to enjoy a movie I had no interest in. While I was playing with some toys, I noticed my folks complain about those newfangled contrivances all state-of-the-art VHS tapes began including before each feature presentation: movie trailers. Oh no. Not again.
My father, being a man fond of technological advance, saw the previews as a good opportunity to use the new wireless remote control. It probably impressed everyone when infrared signals were transmitted from the couch to the VCR (the space age is here!) and prompted the hasty procession of magnetic tape, but I was too busy wrapping my mind around that fragment of a trailer that was now gone, never to return. It featured a young British girl, a simple two-story house in a meadow, a child drawing something with crayons, and a man trying to kill everyone with a hammer. I managed to gather, from the voice over, that the house and the man with the hammer were brought into being by the little girl's drawings. Awesome!
2009: I was watching Prince of Darkness tonight, feeling awful swell that I managed to solve a thread of FC when I became stricken by another. The movie trailer from 1988. What the heck movie was it?! Why have I not been able to let it go, this frequent nemesis of day dreams and reason, for the majority of my life? Bah!
After hours of demented Google searching, message board masochism, and Blog comment section eye-assault I arrived at:
Bingo! El Dorado!
Paperhouse. I now know it is possible to cry, cackle, fart, and leap simultaneously. This is a historic day. For some reason this movie struck me harder than most other FC. I don't care to know why. I am just happy that one more will be quiet. Unfortunately, the movie was never pressed to Region 1 DVD here in the USA, so I had to buy it in European Region 2 DVD form and a new DVD player, as well, that can play all formats in order to see it. Thanks internet!
So, I just spent $90 on a movie that I have never seen in order to put to rest one more frequent bout of disquieting Flicker Cogitation. It is a good day.
Another heavy Flicker Cogitation from my childhood is that of a mouse detective who drinks grapejuice in order to find a key at the bottom of a jug. It's a book. With pictures. I MUST KNOW!
Visit the cat in your head from time to time. For no reason whatsoever. Apparently.
Love,
Smiley Grimm
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