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.









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.











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...

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






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.








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








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







"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





"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

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.

"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?"

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.

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

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