Disillusionment

For the most part, people are just ridiculous (myself included). The real rub is most people don't realize how ridiculous they are. The ones that do often spend a lot of time laughing at themselves and everyone else. I mean look at us. Really. Good gracious. Every time I venture outside I wonder if I have stumbled into a sitcom, and nothing cracks me up more than people who take themselves too seriously.

Even horses think we are ridiculous. Horses!

Being ridiculous can be good and no one wants to be miserable in this wacky world. To help get us through our daily tribulations we employ the talents of the creative to help color and brighten our lives. Unfortunately the people who create art are themselves imperfect humans, and being one such construct I can verify this fact.

One form of art that just about everyone turns to in all degrees of mood is music.

Music came about as a form of expression, a way for people to make life more entertaining through an emotional and melodious medium. In the beginning some genius put it together that they could create a catchy beat by pounding on something, someone else sang, the natives danced, and the coconuts rejoiced. Fast forward through time and our popular music today is a far cry from that of our ancestors. I would say over the years mankind has produced some pretty remarkable pieces of music, such as Beethoven’s Moonlight. On the other hand we have The Black Eyed Peas.

This planet is doomed.

Sadly, this is the case with Heavy Metal as well. It started out as a great idea, you know, play loudly, bang head, and yell. Now it seems to be more about fighting over stage real-estate, not sharing the spotlight, how you play your tunes, and through what gear. I have come to notice a plague of musicians that are more concerned with displays of technical skill than the conveyance of their emotions. Actually, I think this has always been prevalent, I just didn’t notice it as much.

That feeling you get when you realize that the object of your passion isn’t as genuine as you thought is called: disillusionment. It’s kind of a drag a little bit. Well, it’s a drag until you realize it’s ridiculous, and then it’s funny, like church. Ha-ha-hallelujah!

God bless Photoshop.

Anyway, the culprit: Ego, the puppeteer of objectification and materialism.

It destroys everything, even Red Box. Nice wallpaper patterned with little yellow ducks, a soothing massage from a tiny Asian lady with loose morals, or a nice meal, we find ways to screw it all up with our insatiable lust for ego stroking. Sometimes we put a lot of faith into or place an overabundance of importance onto something deceptively simple. Other times we take something great in conception and warp it into a mockery or destroy it in implementation. We must love being miserable. Egotistically miserable, if there is such a thing.

I see it all the time at my band’s shows. Too many bands these days have no stage presence. The musicians just stand there, concentrating so hard that they refuse to move about, shackled by insecurity. They are so afraid if they play one note imperfectly that someone may notice and not think them gods. If they do move it is just to position themselves in the limelight so everyone can see how cool they are. They are more interested in appearance than music. Their music is just runway lights for their soaring egos.

Like high-school kids and their first automobiles, musicians these days try to one-up each other with their gear. Constantly people try to “talk shop” with me and I have no clue what they are saying. I just smile, nod, and make them so bored that they leave me alone eventually. Who cares what your guitar is plugged into; all I care is that it sounds good, and most folks today do not sound good, despite the cost and sheen of their over-expenditures. I find it sad that these people insist on muddying something as simple as music with hyperbolic jargon, the brands of their tools, and herd minded conformity. Metal used to be about pushing the limits, breaking the rules, and unleashing chaos. Now it is becoming a brand of clothing made of wool and worn by sheep. Baaah.

Guitar virtuoso.

It should be emotion that guides the composer’s pen over his or her manuscript and fingers upon the instrument, not ego. The moment you forsake truth for façade you forfeit your artistry. It’s called feinting by numbers.

As always, this just means the cream rises to the top and the unique flourish and succeed. Everyone else is just here for me to laugh or snore at. I’m in it for the art not the attention, or the sex, or the drugs. I don’t need the flaccid approval of others to feel good about myself. As long as I like what I play then I am good. I write and play for me and me alone. As long as the few pioneers out there keep innovating and leading us I can tolerate the ego fueled trite that burdens the stages of today. Barely.

Disillusionment with Metal is why I have found more enjoyment in other genres of music lately. I would have to say that my favorite bands of the past year and a half are: Muse, Franz Ferdinand, Garbage, Shivaree, with Yeah Yeah Yeahs barely edging The Birthday Massacre out of my top five. I still listen to the classic Metal bands that I have always loved (Black Sabbath, Cradle of Filth, Iron Maiden, Gwar, etc.) but I am stirred more by modern alt-pop-rock than what is passing for Metal these days.

Another picture of a laughing horse, because hay, why not?

Maybe I am getting old and crotchety. Maybe stuff just sucks. I think I am just too Metal for Metal.

Love,
Smiley Grimm

Shivaree Association

For the most part the best things in life are hidden to us. This is why it is so rewarding to find something truly unique and appealing. Sometimes these diamonds in the rough are so awesome that you may in fact miss them the first time you are witness to them. This is understandable considering how much trite we are accosted by on a regular basis. Sometimes our brains just can’t fathom something so great, similar to the ghost of Elvis popping up in your bathroom and puking in your toilet. This was the case with me and one of my new favorite bands: Shivaree. Minus the vomity apparition of course.

On April 16th 2004 the world was treated to the release of the film Kill Bill Vol. 2. Some people liked it, myself included, others not so much. Regardless of your stance on the film, it had an impact on me. Emblazing the motion picture like a jewel in a crown is a most luscious soundtrack. It includes such greats as Johnny Cash, Charlie Feathers, and Shivaree. I dug the soundtrack so much that I bought it immediately after seeing the film. Upon listening to it I was enthralled by a song called Goodnight Moon and was more than satisfied with my purchase. In fact, Goodnight Moon is the first song you hear on the disc, for good reason it is unquestionably a standout track, though it appears during the end credits in the movie.



Still, despite my love of Goodnight Moon I didn’t bother investigating the band that wrote it. I just foolishly associated the song with a soundtrack and nothing more. Eventually the Kill Bill Vol. 2 soundtrack found its way onto my CD shelf and collected dust. It stayed in my collection even though I have sold or trashed many CDs over the years. It even survived stormy relationships and several moves. Nonetheless, it was nearly forgotten.

Recently I felt an urge to discover new music. Being a musician I feel a strong connection to music in general. Music stimulates me on many levels. Like most people I can associate music with time periods of my life. For example, when I listen to Megadeth’s Countdown to Extinction I can’t help but reminisce about the summer between 8th and 9th grade when I would hang out at a pool with friends and jam out all day. Music can take you back which is one reason we all enjoy it. Even more so I couple music with emotion. My current state of mind and temperance all play a part in my choice of music listening. Surely we all have those songs that can lift our spirits when down or get our blood flowing when feeling energetic. Goodnight Moon definitely strokes my goat in this way.

One thing I associate music with is places and settings, oftentimes ones that are completely fictitious. When I write stories I like to put on some tunes that tie thematically to the chapter I am working on. Other times I sit back and wonder what kind of music I would listen to while doing a particular thing or being in a certain place. A new scenario involved imagining what kind of music I would enjoy while driving down one of those long straight highways in west Texas on my way to New Mexico at night. One of the first albums to come to mind was the soundtrack to Kill Bill Vol. 2. I took it to work with me and jammed it late at night while delivering pizza. Just as before, Shivaree’s Goodnight Moon leapt from my stereo speakers and stimulated my pleasure zones like ice cream on my nips.



Not wanting to repeat any mistakes from my past, I flipped the CD case over and read for the first time the name of the band that wrote that enchanting song: Shivaree. Better late than never I suppose.

Using a MP3 program called Zune—which is similar to iTunes but better and thus inferior—I was able to find Shivaree’s albums online, with the exception of one, and purchased them for downloading. I did not even bother to sample them first; I knew I would love it. Ding! It is immensely rewarding to discover a band that is new to you and that has released several albums. Now that I have acquired all of their albums, even the one that was never released in the US, I jam them incessantly. I would even venture to say that Shivaree is in my Top 10 Favorite Bands of All Time.

If you have never devoted brain cells to figuring out what your favorite band is then consider this: what band gives you goose bumps every time you listen to them? Being a performing musician I also ask myself, which bands would I love to play for? Shivaree would be the answer to both of those questions, as well as a few other bands.

Their Wikipedia page describes them as an American rock/pop band. I would also add that they display influences of blues, jazz, and experimental elements. Ambrosia Parsley, the female singer, shows variance of style and tone throughout each song in a way that helps keep each track fresh and entertaining. She can enrapture you like a siren or inspire you to sing along with pulse pounding ferocity. The band, consisting of Danny McGough on keys and Duke McVinnie on guitar, wield such a learned range of talents and techniques that no two songs sound the same. There aren’t many that can compete with this troika of awesomeness.



Do yourself a favor and give me a million dollars. After that check out Shivaree, buy their albums, and go see them perform live. We will all be better for it.

Love,
Smiley Grimm

Skinvestigative Reporting

For the most part I have lived a sheltered life. Well, if you ignore things like the unstable fathering from the old man and subsequent broken home, the teenage antics that led to me being expelled from school, the tattoos, the street fights, and all the chaos and tumult that comes with playing bass in a heavy metal band, then yeah, I have lived a sheltered life.

Totally my family.

And so it was that I found myself in the seedy, smelly, body-hairless dressing room of a male strip club.

As you may recall from a previous posting, the drummer for my band is an “entertainer.” Every year for his birthday he throws a party at his place of employment. He invites a handful of bands, including his own, to play. For one day of the year the club sets aside its oily studs for a night of local music.

Excluding pizza deliveries, I have never paid a visit to a strip club of any kind. I don’t understand dancing to begin with—much less dancing for dollars—and am not enticed in the least to stuff my hard earned cash into the dingy undies of alcoholic and drug addled mothers of five, no matter how sexy their cesarean scar. What’s more, being a male, I have what is arguably considered a male body, and honestly ladies, we aren’t works of art. Dudes are hairy, sweaty, and stinky. What, other than the same errant impulse that spurs one to put their hand into an alligator’s mouth, would inspire women to stick dollars into the shaved taint of some dude with a pseudonym? As it turns out a nice set of abs is ample motivation.

Even on a Sunday the ladies are willing to throw alimony and child support at strangers. Combine that with a mass of people that want to see heavy metal and you have a sizable and rabid crowd, even though there wasn’t any actual stripage going on. This is plenty reason for me to not be around. I don’t like crowds, or people…or roaches…or wasps. There weren’t any insects, so yeah, I had to focus on the first of that list of not-likes and sought the relative safety of the dressing room.

Naked male wasp. Probably a stripper too.

I can’t say I’ve ever wondered what it is like being backstage at a strip joint, but surprise, now I know! It is a smorgasbord (I hate that word) for the senses, to say the least.

The first thing I noticed was the smell. It is reminiscent of a locker room, but there was a hint of something else in the air. Near the stairs that led from the dressing room to the stage there was a small table loaded with hand sanitizer and other liquidy products. They smell good. The rest of the place? Not so much.

The walls are bedecked with photo-collages, performance routines and schedules, and promotional posters featuring more glistening muscles than the meat market at your local grocer. Couple that with the exercise equipment—including curling weights that were so heavy my back hurt just looking at them—and you have plenty of reasons for a scrawny and unimpressive dude like me to commit suicide.

I was struck by the amount of props and costuming that goes into a typical production. I had always just assumed that a muscled up dude dancing to terrible music was enough for a female. Apparently I am wrong. One locker contained a boxing outfit. Another had canes, walkers, and an old man mask. There were even plastic guitar controllers for Guitar Hero in one. Swords: check. Torches: check. Children's Videos: wtfcheck. What else, ligature strangulation props for your murder fantasy? As far as I know, things of this nature aren’t put to use at clubs with female dancers. Just seeing naked girls is enough for most guys, but I guess ladies like to dress up the festivities a bit. Boy howdy am I boring!

More fun than Xbox.

The backstage restroom is totally non-private. The door was tiny and useless, and the urinal was just out in the open. I mean, if you have already been jiggling about all naked and stuff, what’s a little privacy for your dirty business? The main restroom for the club—conveniently located under the pink neon sign that read: The Powder Room—is unisex. Being subjected to seeing, hearing, and smelling a lady poo is pretty much my definition of Hell a little bit. I am sure this feeling transcends both sexes, so why make everyone share the same facilities? It’s savage, I tell you!

I make the place sound terrible. In fact, it is the premier club of its kind in our town and the lovely folks that constitute the staff and performers are very nice and totally cool. Not to mention, their clothing is totally fabulous. I am honored to have played there.

Now I can say I have performed on stage at a male strip club. What a life.

Love,
Smiley Grimm

Still Alive: Monkeys and Juices

For the most part I am a terrible manger of time. There are many things I should do, but don't. There are many things I want to do, but don't, and that is a problem. Well, it would be a problem if I cared.

Bills should pay themselves. Or at least we should all be assigned bill-paying monkeys. I would plant, water, and provide sunshine for a bill-paying monkey. You are supposed to keep monkeys in damp soil, right? Well, I suppose there is the problem of depending on a potted monkey to earn money, but we’ll peel that banana when we get to it.

Where can I get seeds for this?

So what have I been ignoring and what have I been doing?

One thing I have obviously been procrastinating on is this blog. Though I still jot notes and brainstorm over possible postings, I haven’t taken the time to actually write one in a while. This is mostly due to me being like a creativity lemon. My juices have been squeezed out and deposited into too many drinks. Some drinks have been made more tasteful at the expense of others. I’ve been over squozen, as it were.

My band—another time and creativity-juice sink—is doing OK. We play shows and stuff. It has been strange getting out and playing shows again after a year break. The music scene kind of sucks now compared to how it was half a dozen years ago, but that may just be Good Ol’ Days Syndrome. Either way, gigging has not been as fun or rewarding as I had hoped. My band rocks but it doesn’t seem like too many others agree with me. I’ll just take that to mean the world cannot fathom the depth of our awesomeness.

Getting together with my old pals and playing a ton of Magic: The Gathering has been fun. We play so much that we have our own meta-game brewing. Building new decks to try against my foes is time consuming, but it sure beats sweeping up the pube farm that’s growing around my toilet. It’s a game of strategy and creative design. My juices are all over it.

I have devoted most of my attention, however, to a story I am writing. With any luck it will be my ticket out of the pizza biz, as not fun and unrewarding as delivery is. If I can make a cool million off a book, then hopefully, I can accomplish my dreams. Like moving to New Mexico and growing a potted monkey farm.

Squozen.

Love,
Smiley Grimm

Noir World

For the most part, the present day bores me half to death. This is why I spend so much time lost in dreams of the fantastic, playing video games, reading, or writing. According to fiction novels and movies the middle-ages were a sword swinging good time. There was magic, Hobbits, and wildly attractive well groomed maidens waiting to be rescued. Of course, there were also dragons and dark overlords trying to enslave everyone and destroy the world, but such is the weather. Turn the page and you will be ushered into the future where space-travel, laser guns, and triple-breasted babes await anyone with the bravado to tackle evil empires and hostile alien races. Flip a coin; either one of those scenarios beats delivering pizza and filling out a census.


Recently I was introduced to another fine example of the fanciful: film noir.

In Noir World adventure can be found in the dark alleyways of a rain glazed downtown, in seedy underground bars, hopping jazz clubs, and raucous cigarette smoke filled socialite parties. Blackmail is the flavor of the day, and double-crosses are as common as the street rats and glasses of scotch. The heroes come in the form of fedora wearing, trench coat clad, hard boiled private detectives. The women are more commonly referred to as femme fatales, whose piercing eyes and beautiful features are matched only by their penchant for murder and mayhem. Yes, please!

"Build my gallows high, baby."

I love mysteries, thrillers, and speaking in double entendre, so a jaunt in Noir World would be almost natural for the likes of me. Sadly, I don’t get involved with as much of that as I would like, what with living in such a desensitized and loose world as this and all. The world of the 1940’s and 50’s was far more restrained—thanks to Nazi-like ratings boards and overbearing religious decree—and were the people of that era introduced to anything that you can find on broadcast television these days, it is highly likely the planet would have exploded in a cloud of bullet bras and nipple-high trousers. It is in the reading between the lines and examination of the psychological that Noir World truly shines.

Speaking of double entendre, any writer that can turn a casual conversation about racing horses into a metaphor for sex is genius in my book. See: The Big Sleep with Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall.

"I prefer to start out in front, work my way to the rear, and come from behind..."

To think that my parents came from such an awesome time; I am truly jealous. Philip Marlowe is a much more interesting character than any of the douchebags on film today. And ladies just aren’t built the same way these days as they were back then. Our genes and hormones are so screwy from all the genetically tampered food and drugs that our bodies are a far cry from what they should be, and the clothes we have to stuff them into are just as ill-conceived. Try wearing your trench coat like Robert Mitchum, or rocking some heels like Jane Greer; you will be nothing more than a sad pretender, and believe me: I suck at heels.

Compared to that golden age today is neurotic, nephritic, and definitely not cool. Now, I know what you are thinking—I am a super-mutant after all—and your argument of “those are movies, not reality” is bunk. We have had over fifty years to demolish and rebuild society to function as it does in The Maltese Falcon. The fact that we haven’t is proof of our glaring disregard for all that is virtuous; a mutilated figurehead of abject failure. Shame on us. Shame on us all.

We will never be this bad ass.

Love,
Smiley Grimm

Mad Science

For the most part, I begin most of my blog postings with the phrase "for the most part." Perhaps I should start all of them this way. Eh, we'll see. I also noticed that I don't make many posts in March. In fact, zero. If I remember correctly, last year I didn't post in March because I was without a computer. This year it was because I was super busy.

My band, Verdict of Vengeance, finally found a drummer. Because our previous drummer had gotten too fat and out of shape to perform metal, and thus had to quit, we went almost a whole year without playing. This contributed to 2009 being one of the worst years of my life. Having an outlet for release and creativity is very important to me and for the last twelve years my band was the primary source. Without it I probably became even balder. For sure, my urge to kill rose steadily. Happy days are here again, though, for the total antithesis of the last dude has arrived.

Pictured: the reason my band mates just went on a diet.

The funny part is that when I say "total antithesis" I freaking mean it. Our last drummer was a 6'1 and 350lb slab of sweaty jiggly fat. You would swear he was born of a gene splicing between jello and big-macs. Our new drummer is a romance novel cover model. Read that last sentence again. Hyperbole and superlatives aside, he is one of the sexiest humans on this planet, and he actually appears in the book shelves of your local super-market on the cover of sleazy romance novels. You know, one of those people you don't believe exists until you see them. Also, he’s one of those people that drastically decrease your chances of attracting the opposite sex. Don't believe me? Click here.

That link should send you to a male strip club where he is the main event. Come to find out, most male exotic dancers are fans of heavy metal and travel in oiled up strip-packs. When I show up to band practice now, not only do I have the super model drummer waiting for me, but there are also a handful of other muscle bound studs standing around lifting heavy things over their heads, enjoying the adulation of a gaggle of women, and totally making me consider becoming a monk because I am never getting laid again. That's fine; at least I am jamming now.

At a recent show—our first with Mr. Sexypants—after we finished our set and I stepped off stage, a female ran up to me, grabbed my dude-boob, and told me ab for ab how hot my new drummer is. She then skipped away like a prancing bunny. This is the first time I have ever seen chicks that were happy to have attended a heavy metal show. Like, whoa!

I don't want to be unfair; the new dude is a fantastic musician and a wonderful human being. The whole band is very grateful for his arrival and we look forward to many awesome shows with him. I am also looking forward to collecting his sweat droplets and harvesting his DNA for personal "improvements," or in other words, self-help mad scientist style.

"At last, Angelo juice!"

There is more to share so check back for more posts over the next few days.

Love,
Smiley Grimm

Red Box & The Perils of Movie Rental

For the most part, I spend my waking moments in over my head in one busy making activity or another. Expression and entertainment go hand in hand and require constant motion and brain power. Still, it is nice to recharge my batteries with a passive activity from time to time. In such cases I, like most folks, often turn to the wonder of motion pictures. I don't much care for long lines or social interaction, so I have made use of a recent and convenient mechanism to meet that end: Red Box.

Stolen Soviet weaponry.

Red Box is an automatic movie dispenser increasingly found wherever people are. You can spy one at the corner drug store, the gas station, and in markets. During the heavy traffic periods of the day when the highest density of humans are out grazing, Red Box is little different from a movie rental store. There are long lines of people waiting to use it, often comprised of bickering couples, and social interaction is required due to engaging in verbal fencing matches with the rabid herd nibbling at your backside. I try to avoid such entanglements altogether by 'Boxing it at night, preferably clad in the garb of a ninja while waving a white flag.

You can learn a lot at Red Box. Such as these observations that I've made from the safety of the shadows:

1. Men and women will fight with each other anywhere.
2. Total strangers will fight with each other anywhere.
3. Girl Scouts apparently have a new tactic: Redwhacker Boxbush.
4. Hillbillies and elderly still suck at using technology, though, they try anyway.

Pretty sure she doesn't know how to 'Box.

By now I'm sure you get my point: people will screw up anything that was originally intended to make life easier (See: religion.). To combat this frustration, and to help the executives live their dream of swimming in golden coins ala. Scrooge McDuck, Red Box Automated Retail, LLC has spread more seed than Tiger Woods. Soon we will no longer breath the air provided by trees, rather, we will inhale the exhaust of Red Box machines that are more abundant than Mother Nature herself. They are freaking everywhere!

I am no different and feed that fire with each swipe of my credit card.

And so it was, I found myself ready to watch a movie. I turned to Red Box, that Djinn of Wishes, and rented the recent film Paranormal Activity. I have heard a great deal of buzz regarding this flick and figured why not. I loaded the DVD, killed the lights, and huddled under my blanket in the cold of a 3am early Saturday morning.

Thirty minutes in and the DVD came to a garbled, static spewing, shrieking halt. Eject. Checked the disc. It was scratched beyond hope. What. The. Fuji!

Yes, there is one more observational truth I failed to take in to account: most people should not be allowed to handle discs. The Paranormal Activity DVD was so badly scarred, by the mistreatment of former users, that the fact that I made it thirty minutes in can only be explained by the surfacing of my latent mutant super powers.

My DL photo.

Think about it for a moment. How many times have you yourself engaged in, or have been witness to, the abuse of CDs or DVDs? Is there a need for this? Really, is it that hard to take care of your stuff? Okay I know what you are thinking, this DVD belongs to Red Box so the customer didn't take care of it because they didn't purchase it. That argument is bunk. When you create your Red Box account you have to sign a contract, one that handles licenses and ownership of loaned property. Technically, you don't rent from Red Box, you buy a license agreement with a time limit. If you still possess the DVD after a brief window of time the DVD becomes yours; you bought it with daily microdeductions.

If you "rent" with intent to return and then abuse the disc, you are a sadist. Not only are you so pathetic that you can't transport a DVD from a plastic case to your player without first dropping it into a sandbox or rubbing nail files all over it, you choose to impart your badge of failure onto others. Screw you, buddy. Giving people an avenue of instant gratification is almost as bad an idea as midi-chlorians or birthing Hitler, people just can't resist crapping all over success!

The midi-chlorian of Germany.

After my DVD player gave me a wicked glower and puked a horribly mangled disc back at me, I had to drive all over town at 4am, scouring Red Boxes the block over in search of a working Paranormal Activity. I found it, watched it, and thought it sucked. Not only did I have to suffer the wrath of a disc disfiguring sloth, I had to endure a terrible movie for sake of completion.

Red Box isn't a convenient answer for our lust of entertainment, it is a monument to our sins.

Love,
Smiley Grimm

Words: Hammering Down A Tree.

For the most part, we speak with, type with, and utterly misuse words without even considering their origins or application as involuntarily as we breath. Words can be both a reactionary stimuli and a stimuli reaction. Words hold power.

In the end, though, words are just tools for communication. These tools were built by someone, and/or lots of someones, over many long and colorful ages. Like any tool for sale at your local hardware store - say a hammer - some can deliver a great impact, and others miss the mark entirely.

Let us consider some of my favorite words:

Extrapolate. I like this word. It is fun to say, most people don't know what it means, and is one of the few words that sounds smart and kinky at the same time!

Extrapolate: the sex-swing of words.

Conundrum. Another fun word that most don't know the definition of. When I first heard it I thought someone was physically incapacitated by a musical instrument. Once I realized what this word means, it presented the conundrum of whether I should laugh or become violent every time I found myself in one, thus creating an infinite paradoxical loop. It is a conundrum just figuring out how to pronounce it correctly the first time. Joy!

Action. This is one of my favorite all purpose tools. For me it is a placeholder, descriptor, and vocalized pause. It is very similar to "garbage" in this way. You can refer to a slice of pizza as "your action." You can throw a twenty dollar bill at a person in anticipation of "some action." It can be something that someone owns, such as, "Jeff was running around waving his action at everyone." I love it!

The dude in the foreground can't handle Superman's action.

Then again, there are words in our language that I argue were miss-crafted by our forebears. Words that don't sound anything like what they are fixed upon.

For example:

Smorgasbord. Yeah, I know what you are thinking, it's Swedish. Well, those S-weeds messed up on this one. To me it doesn't invoke the image of a large opulent table piled gullet high with food. On the contrary, I visualize something much more broad and higher reaching. I am of the mind that "Smorgasbord" should have been used as the name of a star system.

How does this sound?

"Captain, we have just entered the Smorgasbord System," said the navigator of the SS Flying Platypus.

"Thank you, Jiggy," replied Captain Feriluc. He rubbed his chin in deep consideration then ordered aloud,  "Raise the Sit-Stat to level three. You can never be sure what Smorgasbordians have up their sleeves."

Smorgasbord: a two-star system.

See what I mean? Get that petition started.

Gretchen. To all who claim this name: I pity you. For you see, this is not the name of a female. Rather, gretchen is the act of gretching, and by gretching I mean succumbing to the violent misfortunes of a gretch. Now replace all instances of the word "gretchen"  with throw-up, vomit, or puke, and you will see what I am saying.

"Oh man, that guy is about to gretch!"

"Dude, he is totally gretchen!"

Need I say more?

Now that you are aware of the fact that our ancestors weren't all geniuses, be on the look out for other words that don't match what they represent. One day, when the world is perfect, our ant-children will appreciate it.

Totally gretchen.

Love,
Smiley Grimm

My First Year Blog Review

2009, what a crazy messed up year that was! 2010 has already been much better (whew!) and I can't wait to type about it. First, I want to look over and review my first year of blogging. Smiley Grimm's Macro-Halo has had its share of ups and downs, let us examine.

Meet the Beezleboss! was my introduction. Yay! It was okay I suppose, in a weird and cryptic sort of way. It also features a picture of me, that I posted in a quirky manner because I didn't know an easy way to do it.

Next came Cave Drawings, which is really the first post. This was an attempt to figure out the tone and style of my posts. Noob alert!

The next few posts were life updates (boring) and where spread out over a long period of time due to computer problems. Eventually, we arrived at I just found out Santa isn't real, which I really liked. Equal parts rant and despair, I think this is the first post that actually comes off as slightly coherent. Success!

After some old lyrics I wrote, we find ourselves in either a busy month, or one where I had nothing better to do than blog. The month of May saw a record seven posts, like whoa! Highlights being: Fun With Real History, Pt. 1, and Can I Get A Mulligan? Pt. 1. These posts, a couple of faves of mine, brought me my first fan mail AND hate mail, rockin'! Yes, someday there will be sequels to those posts.

After more computer problems and further 2009 turmoil, we come to October, which is where I feel I really started to get an idea of how I want to blog. "May we suggest lying?" is near and dear to me, for no reason really.

Pretty much November and December are one and the same. I like all of my posts in those two months and worked on them nearly every day. I assume you have read them, and you will probably agree with me, that I found my footing in the blog world, for better or worse, somewhere mixed in the chaos of: You gotta cut down trees to build a paper house, 5 Gnarly Ways to Die, Art Party, all the way to Traditions With Scissors.

If I had to pick just one post as my favorite, it would probably be: Fun With Real History, Pt. 1. By tomorrow that is likely to change. Oh well.

See you again soon.

Love,
Smiley Grimm

:)

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