Creature 1:4 The Wonderful Mask Machine

Once upon a time, in a very flat forest, their was a machine that made wonderful masks.

Ugly Masks.

Pretty Masks.

Funny Masks.

Sad Masks.

Masks. Masks. Masks.

The machine made all kinds of masks, and people came from far and wide to see the machine's wonderful creations.

Everyone was so impressed with the masks, however, that they hardly ever payed any attention to the machine.

You see, even though the machine made masks that filled people's hearts with joy, the machine itself was old, rusty, dusty, and had lost many sprockets during it's stay in the very flat forest.

People loved the machine's wonderful masks, but their was NOTHING wonderful about the rusty, dusty, old machine.

Still, day in and day out the machine sputtered and spattered and steamed and screamed and made the most wonderful masks anyone has ever seen.

One night a great blizzard came and covered the flat forest in a thick blanket of beautiful white snow.

Every corner of the forest was beautiful and white...everywhere that is, except for the machines part of the forest.

Oh it was still covered with thick snow, but instead of being white, the smoke, oil, and steam from the machine had turned all the snow around the machine a dirty, greasy, black.

Pitch. Black.

The black snow stayed for many weeks and nobody would come visit the machine while it was surrounded by the oily snow.

One day, a pitch black snowlady appeared before the machine.

Instantly the machine sputtered into action.

BUZZCLICKCLICKPOWBANGZOOOOOOOOOMPOPFzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

And out of the machine came a wonderful smiley mask, that was truly beautiful and showed that the machine hadn't lost its talent during its long rest in the black snow, but the snowlady had no face, and wasn't impressed by the wonderful, smiley mask.

So the machine spattered on once again.

WHIRRWHIRRWIZZPOPbubblebubblebubbleKLANKFzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Many sprockets flew off the machine and many springs sprung out of place, but still, a wonderfully funny frowny mask came tumbling out of the rusty old machine.

The best frowny mask that the machine ever made!

But...

The snowlady had no face and wasn't impressed by the wonderful, frowny mask.

Not. In. The. Least.

KLANKTINGPOWPLOPFzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Grinning Mask.

TIPTIPTIPPIPPOPBOOMFzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Laughing Mask.

CRANKTONGBLAMBLASTFzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Crying Mask

KROOPPOOPDOOPDROOPFzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Kissy Mask.

But no matter what mask the machine churned out, the snowlady had no face and couldn't be impressed.

By this time the machine had lost many parts and was smoking badly from its crooked smoke stack but it couldn't stop until it had impressed the dingy, black, snowlady.

It began to steam and scream and spatter and sputter like it had done a million times before when suddenly...

...

...

nothing.

The machine seized to a sudden halt.

It had lost too many sprockets and sprung too many springs trying to impress the dingy black snowlady and even though it tried, it couldn't make another mask.

The machine.

Was.

Broken.

After many weeks, the black snow melted, as did the snowlady leaving behind only a large patch of dead grass in the very flat forest.

After many years, the broken machine rusted and rusted until it finally fell into a million pieces on the patch of dead grass.

Grass would never grow there again.

And black snow would never fall.

And the the only way you would even know the rusty, dusty, old machine existed, is if you were one of the lucky ones.

If you were lucky enough to see...

a mask.

Creature 1:3

I'm glad I had left my guitar in my car.

Valentine was a most gracious host but southern tradition always dictates that if someone is cooking for you, it is only right to bring them something in return. Valentine is always satisfied with a song, or a notepad to write wisdom upon or sketch pad to doodle in. She wants her “Temple” to be a place where art is born. Often, she talks on the topic of starting a reservation, deep in parts unknown, for artists and thinkers to churn out art and thoughts. For now, her home was her reservation and she viewed it as a very matronly duty to keep her “family” productive.

At a Valentine dinner, a song is much more appropriate than potato salad.

I situate a friendly smile on my face too the point of dimples and walk through the door.

Imagine Santa's elves, freed of whatever debt owed to the old glutton Nick and left at the North Pole with nothing to do but tend to elvish folly and merriment. Remove all Christmas connotations from that thought and you'd have The Temple of Color. Valentine's home, which was currently a car crash of glorious smells and sounds. Valentine has become very skilled at creating a very precise arrangement of smells and sounds that somehow magically fills a room with her presence. I could walk into this room blind and still be perfectly aware that she was near.

You can feel her.

Traditionally when I enter the room the sequence of events is as follows:

1. Valentine makes a noise. It can't be spelled or described, it's just a happy noise

2. The rest of “The Family” say their greetings and smile my way.

3. All of the dogs start growling at me.

4. Everyone scolds their dogs.

Tradition, in this instance, doesn't fail.

I pay no mind to the scorn of these beasts as dogs have never been quite fond of me and hug Valentine's neck with one arm making sure that the tuning knobs on my guitar don't get caught in her hair. This hug activates my charisma and I make my rounds hugging necks, shaking hands and smiling like a jackass the whole time.

A few people are noteworthy here.

Jackson is Valentine's boyfriend. He's southern hopitality to a regal degree. With a blonde beehive beard that always gives me visions of a grand Civil War General that could have really turned things around for the Confederacy had he only been there. His eyes are dark and twinkle, his smile is persistent, and when someone speaks, you never doubt Jackson is listening. A truly rare and important quality. Most impressively though, Jackson seems happy. He seems satisfied with what he has and who he is. If I didn't feel welcome before, Jackson's handshake seals the deal and in that moment of welcome, I would probably jump off a bridge if one were handy. My hypocrisy shoving me hundreds of feet to my demise. I am an unworthy being. He's wasting his welcomes on a tragedy.

Still, It's always good to see Jackson.

Jackson enjoys working with his hands, Natty Light, the outdoors, and practical jokes that end with his penis being exposed..

After my handshake and greeting, Jackson turns back to Jim, who also extends his hand for a greeting. Jim smiles at me, but never stops telling his story. Jim is a well known conspiracy theorist and is apparently at the pinnacle of explaining to Jackson how the government is putting something in the water to make us want to go to war with all non-white nations....or something like that. Jim is as close to a mad scientist as I will probably ever meet. Even his wild-eyes and messy brown hair are the perfect condition for a man familiar with gene splicing and zombie virus. I don't imagine him spending his free time the way ordinary people spend their time...not that I have any room to talk.

Jim's not crazy, however.

Jim's smart.

Which I believe makes him better than just an average stoner rambling off stupidities. His arguments are sound. His research is valid and he speaks, although through a marijuana slur, with confidence and poignancy and even though he does get excited when he preaches, he never comes across as a lunatic and is always receptive to a comical aside from another “family member”.

Also, Jim does not give a fuck.

Jim likes hallucinogenic drugs, the guardian.uk website, seeing stupid people fail, and not giving a fuck.

Even though The Temple of Color has a very spacious living room, most of the guests choose to wander around the kitchen. Its small, which invariably leads to frequent collisions, but we are all comfortable enough with each other that it doesn't really matter. Even the random few I have never met before seem at ease in this confined space.

After a brief conversation with Jim and Jackson concerning George Bush's grandfather and the Nazi party (google it) I collide with Jackson's brother, Boo.

Now, Boo isn't what everyone else calls Jackson's brother, but after a lost bet left him with a very haphazardly shaved head that looked like a training accident in a beauty school for the mentally disturbed, Boo Radley is too perfect a nickname to not use.

I am quite fond of Boo and believe that Valentine would say we are “moons orbiting the same planet.”

Poor Boo.

Boo is funny and smart and good looking and many other adjectives that I would use to describe myself. Much like myself I sense that he has stains on his past he'd rather keep hidden behind a wall of charisma than expose to the rest of the family. The difference being that Boo has happy ending written all over him. Something about Boo lets you know that he has enough of what it takes to actually become his mask.

Which is the ultimate goal for all of us. Like it, or not.

Boo likes stand-up comedy, playing pranks on Jackson, Everclear and yelling at people walking down the street...nothing foul, just a random word to make people question their day.

EGGPLANT!

Something like that.

Boo is telling me about his latest idea for a comedy skit involving a redneck Muslim that has an Earnhardt 3 stitched on his prayer blanket (not his best stuff, but still quite funny), When I hear a curmudgeonly Ahem.

I turn around and see Charlie.

She's standing there with her arms up. She wants me to pick her up and give her a hug, but you wouldn't know it by looking at her face. She's looking at me with a look of sincere disgust or at least as much disgust as her 4'11” frame and adorable face can muster.

She looks like a beautiful doll that has been abused by a careless child and dressed like a scarecrow with a credit card. Shirt with a torn collar, thrift store jacket, sweatpants, some peculiar hair clip with tentacle like feathers, loooooong matted scarf and you would almost think that her entire wardrobe is based on a dare.

But, for her. It. Works.

I smirk as I see her look of loathing and she just turns her head to the side snobbishly to avoid eye contact. She knows if she looks at me too long, she'll smile and she doesn't want that. Not because it means she'll succumb to my sexual advances, just because it means I'll win. I sling my guitar to my back and pick her up in a hug that is friendly and aggressive, almost like a dog chewing on a squeak toy. I can feel her smile big, but she never shows it to me. This is the game Charlie has set for me. She's quick to belittle and berate and despise me...in the most loving way possible. If we are truly a family like Valentine says, she's definitely my little sister.

And she's damaged.

I hold her in the air for a few minutes with ease whilst listening to the rest of Boo's pitch, when her personality kicks in and she demands to be put down because I'm “Too fat for long hugs.”

I smirk at her jab and set her down.

She then introduces me to someone that she's obviously having sex with, obviously doesn't fit in here, and will obviously be gone in about a day or two.

Almost like a dog chewing on a squeak toy.

Charlie likes trouble.

Aside from Charlie's “squeak toy” Valentine has also invited over half a dozen “people of value” that do or are into something “obscure” and “interesting” and they will all be impressed by my charm and wit and I'll forget their names and faces every time I leave the room. I have no use for new friends. I feel guilty enough about the ones I have now.

The night goes on. I spend most of it assisting Boo in fleshing out comedy skits for the show that will one day make us famous, smoking pot with Jackson as we discuss Jackson's regulation beer-pong table he just built and the giant pirate/bull skull he wants me to paint on it, and listening to Charlie talk trash about her newest chew toy while he's in the other room fixing her a drink.

“He has hands like a smurf.”

Poor guy never had a chance.

This whole time I keep my guitar in front of me so I can poorly pick out the same tunes I always pick out every time I come over. Every so often I can sneak out alone on the Temple's patio, playing and singing a song or two too an audience of kudzu that festers to the right of the Temple like a green tide that will eventually wash us all away.

Everyone laughs at my jokes, everyone is genuinely invested in my well being, everyone here loves me and with that thought I realize that I'm completely distant. I'm watching all of this on a small black and white TV in a movie theater on the moon. Every laugh and comment is heard through a telephone, muffled by a fluffy towel. Every clear vision, distorted through the bad reception of my eyes. My words were scripted before I even left my house. My stand-in is here.

I'll be in my trailer.

It's not that I don't want to be here. I love it here. They love me here. It's not that. It's that I feel more like a taint on the ecosystem of my friends, my family, than a fruiting body. I am a psychic vampire. Feeding off the emotions of the people that care about me. I am kudzu. Out of my adoration for them, I only submit them my shadow. Everyone I have ever really cared about is now a Chernobyl victim. Feeling the effects of my manipulations for all time. Never trusting. Always afraid. You know that twinkle in a happy person's eye? I eat them and leave the box they came in.

Every. Single. Time.

And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee. -Nietzsche

I'm pondering Nietzshe on the patio with a Camel Wide and my black guitar when Valentine walks up behind me.

“You're about to leave soon, aren't you, Brother Alchemist?” she says with a smug knowing.

“Yeah, I got work early tomorrow, Oh Soul Sista.” I say as I extinguish my coffin nail.

“You got time for a story?”

I pause, think about the abyss for a few seconds, smile and say, “Yeah, I guess I got time for a story.”

I set down my guitar as she pulls up the adjacent chair and gazes unto me.

Creature: 1:2

I wake up afraid of what my brain has thrown at me and by my cat, of course, who is ready for her morsels again.

Yes Ma'am.

I'm usually late to work but my dream woke me early; I can actually enjoy shower this morning and watch Batman cartoons before I start my day at the print shop.

Make-in Cop-ees.

I'll see you in Hell, Rob Schneider.

I sit up in my bed. Pink sheets now in aftermath mode. My dreams keep my sheets from staying neatly fitted to my bed and my Mother usually uses the term “wreckage” to describe the results. I sit up and catch myself in the mirror. The term “wreckage” would still apply. I'm large, not fat, but large. Well over 6'5” and broad. No imposing muscle structure, but big enough to ensure my safety were I ever to carry a basket of food to my Grandmother's house at an unreasonable hour. My long dark brown hair is a ramshackle curtain hiding my unnaturally friendly face. A smattering of tattoos stand out starkly on my pale skin and suit my faux-badass look, and despite the few scuffles I have under my belt, badass is a far cry from my best adjective. I am a lover. Not a fighter.

If one were so inclined, one could look closely and you'll see a cross work of scars running from just above my elbow and creeping onto my chest. Most of these are self inflicted from my younger days of facing heartbreak in a less than healthy way.

Yes I was that sad sad boy.

I'll see you in Hell, emo-kid at the mall.

I sit and admire my war wounds briefly. They are reminding me of a Berlin road map when my cat nudges me. She's telling me that their will be plenty of time for self-admiration after she's been fed.

Yes Ma'am.

She's fed and I head for the shower.

I am too large for your standard shower and usually spend my showers laying down in the tub to get all of me wet. The hot water drizzling over me instead of powering down because my poor decrepit water heater won't last more than 20 minutes if I turn the pressure up full blast. The drizzle can last an hour or more and I prefer having a long shower. Something about it seems so...purifying.

I pretend that nothing exists on the other side of that curtain. I'm just a tall dude in a steaming, weak pressured shower, floating eternally in the void.

But I'm not.

I peak my head out from around the shower curtain and see the evidence. Despite being relatively clean my bathroom is ALWAYS trashed. I have another bathroom that I insist everyone else use. It stays in immaculate condition. No one is permitted in here. This is the swamp of an evil Troll. Woe to he that enters. Towels piled, empty soap boxes, dozens of empty shampoo an conditioner bottles, random brushes that have halos of hair encircling them and a sink with my red whiskers polluting it all make me feel strangely safe. I can also see a foot wide stripe of calico under the crack of the bathroom door. My cat has finished breakfast. My cat worries about me. So she waits by the door. Not wanting to interrupt but wanting to be close so she can hear me sing or splash and make sure that I'm okay in the room I always walk out of wet. She knows that when I'm in there for hours, I'm pretending nothing else exits. She doesn't think it's a healthy mental exercise but she doesn't really know what to do about it so she just stays near me and pretends to ignore me as cats are known to do. I know that means “I love you. Please, don't do it.”

The hot water is out and I gotta get ready for the day.

One shave, pair of jeans, black t-shirt and leather jacket later; I'm off to work.

I can hear Bill talking before I even open the double pane glass door. I give the greeting to all the coworkers, fill my cup with black coffee and sit down at my desk and begin my hard work on designing a wedding invitation for a young white trash couple when my phone beeps.

I make a font decision and pick up my phone.

Xxx-xxx-xxxx: Sorry about that text last night, I was drunk and out of line. You know you're awesome. I'm just being dumb. We cool?

Me: Of course we cool. I know girls are crazy ;)

Xxx-xxx-xxxx: hahaha.

I plug Mary back into my phone and yet it doesn't seem any heavier. Strange.

I continue with my day's routine without a second thought to Mary.

I've been so productive at work lately. I generally finish all my daily duties around 10:00 and use the leftover time to waste my time reading useless Internet news and watching bizarre videos. I am a big fan of videos with animals eating other animals...I can't really explain that. But their's something beautiful about a golden eagle grabbing a goat from a mountain side and flying away with it, or a turtle snagging a pigeon and dragging it into the watery depths, or an octopus eating a shark. Brutal. Lovely...I sense I've gone to far...please keep in mind that this rouses no sexual feelings or savage instincts. This is more of an innocent 8 year old 'WHOA AWESOME' scenario. The soul of a child in a man's body.

How do you get a clown off a fence post?

You hit him in the face with an axe.

That's the sense of humor we're dealing with here.

Anyway, the Internet is notorious for leaching all my attention. Recently though, I have been highly active in my artistic endeavors and have added many more personal design projects to my portfolio as of late. Like my 8 foot typographic tribute to my favorite film, “The Good The Bad and The Ugly” and my “Creature From the Black Lagoon” poster made entirely with the font Gill Sans. Being productive always puts a little hop in my step and I carry that hop with me to lunch.

Bill sees a set of free ears heading to lunch and decides to follow me.

So there I was man. Jackal concert. Front friggin row! And I was tripping. My. Face. Off, Dude! I mean, I'm looking at the lights like 'whooooooaaaaaaaaa' and smoking black and miles like they're Virgina Slims man! I'm tellin ya. You like hard music? Shit yeah I bet you do. With ya raggley long hair and him-hawin Tool shirts and shit, but I'm tellin ya dude. This has got to be one of the best concerts of all damn time! No shit dude. No shit.

I smile and nod and act impressed. really wishing I was impressed because something tells me that when I'm Bill's age I will have nothing more relevant than the stories of a bunch of concerts I went to that I'm sure were “The greatest shows ever”.

I enjoy a half dozen boiled eggs for lunch and nod and smile at all of Bill's stories never making much conversation beyond “What?!”,”No way dude”,”Man, sounds awesome” general responses. I'm not listening. Etc.

Through the white noise of Bill's speech inspiration hits me.

I had earlier just found a copy of the Ars Goetia from The Lesser Key of Solomon.

The book was supposedly originally written by King Solomon in the days of...well...King Solomon. Which would predate the birth of Christ about 900 years. The book describes in elaborate detail 72 high ranking demons in hell and gives the instructions on how to summon and control them if one were so inclined. Apparently King Solomon had some success at this and was kind enough to pass along the instructions to all of us not as wise as he.

Did he? Didn't He? Who cares? It's an interesting read and the pictures are the primary source of my inspirations.

Each demon has a seal, and the seals are neat-o. Neat-o enough to be the source of my latest art project.

I'm thinking giant cryptic demon sign with a gas mask? Yeah, gas mask...I like gas masks...and horns NO...antlers...yeah, antlers that'll be super neat-o and fill in that space in my kitchen nicely.

You have just witnessed the artistic process.

You're welcome.

You ever seen anything like that dude?!? I mean it's hard to top that!!! Four midgets! Count em! Four! What you ol' ugly ass think about that?!?!

“Whoa Dude, that's crazy.”

After making a large printout of Buer's sign and stopping by the art store for some wonderful illustration board I head home and begin work on my latest cryptic creation.

I transfer the symbol by applying charcoal to the back of the printout, taping it on top of the board and carefully tracing the seal with a 1.3 mm mechanical pencil.

For a moment my imagination starts to churn out the idea that by doing this, I am actually completing one of Solomon's summoning rituals and President Buer will appear before me in all his horrible glory. The head of a lion with five goat legs surrounding it. This, of course allows him to move in all directions and probably much faster than me. I'm a lover, not a runner.

And oh, the egg on my face.

I have no sacrifice or dealings with the beyond other than a collection of creepy artwork that would probably only offend him even more. He'll then either take this opportunity to sink his hellish teeth into my neck and swallow my fat Irish head in one gulp or, even worse, take me back with him to the fiery depths where I will be forever tortured by he and the 50 legions of demons under his command.

I snap myself out of it and continue drawing away.

I get the symbol, gas mask and antlers lined out (I was right...super neat-o) and decide that all is composed well enough to call it finished for the night and sit down on the couch for a TV or video gaming session too return me to a world without demons and magic...which is kinda ironic now that I think about it...

My deep thought is interrupted by the phone.

St. Valentine: Oh great herald of the 8th pyramid! Festivities are in order at the temple of color. A feast for kings is all but laid. Fancy an inch to your waistline?

This is Valentine. My most hippiest of friends. Loosely translated she's telling me that they are cooking at her house and my presence is requested.

Valentine prefers this to your standard text. It's coded in the language of her. If it gets so obscure that you have no clue what she's saying, it means you're not close enough to her to understand. The better you know Valentine, the better you can interpret these things. She's never explained this to me...I doubt she's even aware of it...but it's the truth, and quite surprisingly to me, I have been fluent in Valentine's language since day one. This has never seemed strange to her. She believes in the energies that pull people to one another and accepts our ability to interpret each others true meanings as some universal thing that connects to the ultimate gizmo and attaches us through a do-hicky in Saturn's outer ring.

My cynicism/skepticism has never pushed her away. She is as entertained by my lack of hippy as I am her abundance of it.

Never has their been sexual tension between us. Valentine knows horrible me and is wise enough to keep her distance whilst still wanting me to attend every one of her obscure gatherings due to my sense of humor and ability to make people feel comfortable no matter their inner or outer turmoils.

It's just what I do.

Plus her food is always good.

Me: Yellow Circle.

St. Valentine: Lightening Bolt.

Television will have to wait.

One hair brush, mouthwash and fresh shirt later I'm on my way to Valentine's Temple for a night with my friends.

As I leave, I scrub my cat for good luck and she purrs with emphasis. I take one final look at the antlered gas mask in front of Buer's mark and once again consider the fancy of him reaching from the seal with his hell-mouth and pulling me away. Never again to call my mother or adore my cat or make balloon animals for my nephews and niece or write a song on the guitar...

or drink till I forget who I am...

or drug till I forget where I am...

or womanize till I forget what I am ...

or waste away...

or get smaller...

or burn out...

or fade away...

never again having to face the guilt of throwing your life in neutral...and flooring it.

I'll see you in Hell, me.

I snap out of it.

One leather jacket and I'm out the door.

Creature: 1:1.5

I dream about being in a space. There is a wooden table and a me and me has a meat cleaver in me hand. Light shines from overhead and I look perplexed, but not scared in the least. My facial expression never changes as I crane my neck to examine the cleaver as I curiously fondle it in my hand. Then I expectantly and ferociously swing the blade down on my opposing wrist. Severing my hand from my arm in one swift chop.

My face is winced, but there is no blood. I peek down not to see meat and bone, but I appear to be made up of some sort of processed meat. Like a Vienna Sausage or Spam. I lift up my nub to examine it. I now look concerned, but not scared.

I'm not scared when I chop off my forearm, my elbow, my bicep, my deltoid, my foot my legs and rest the blade finally, peacefully in my sternum.

I am a meat sheath.

I am a completely stoic torso of a man and I'm not scared in the least.

I only get really scared when I wake up.

Creature: 1:1

Earlier today I was dropping my 3 kids off at school and about to head to the store so that I can pickup milk so that my wonderful wife of 7.4 years could make her family famous 7 layer chocolate cake for our church's covered-dish social...wait...no...that's not me.

I'm not that guy.

That's the guy I'm supposed to be. Maybe even, the guy I want to be

But. I. Ain't.

No wife. No kids. No mini-van. No church.

No church a lot.

I am the guy that stalled.

The guy trapped under a mountain of debt that is keeping him locked in a state of arrested development. Still having his 90's Era long hair and a Hot Topic frequent buyers card. The guy that is still wearing a Nine Inch Nails shirt and jeans as his dress uniform for his 30th birthday party. The guy that still brings home girls from bars and yet, too broke to take them somewhere nice. The hope being that a relationship will start and he can have that home and wife and kids and life.

I have to get love quick. I've fallen in love dozens of nights knowing full well that when the night is over, my love is forever lost. A victim to my charms, to my unattainable dreams, to my ego...my vicious ego and to my shame.

I'm that guy.

That guy does have a job, however.

Bill is in his early fifties. He's been working offset presses for 17 years and working the in the shop with me for the last four. He always looked like leather, with the tattoos he'd gotten in 'the clink' now, nothing more than blue blurbs across the animal hide of some bizzare Indian redneck. In the past, Bill grew up poor, went into the Marines, got out when his time was up without ever seeing war, kept the same friends through high school, went to prison, got out, and did whatever until he met me. Bill talks constantly, but it's not in the way that makes you want to staple something to your face. His stories are usually laced with face words (So, here comes Santa in a raggely ol sleigh and 4 kludged out whitetail...), racial slurs (So, my wife and 4 other koons went to Crow's nest last night...), and general redneck insanities (So, she's callin me a-sayin 'Deddy! Booger shot my dog'!!!) to be listenable, and, more often than not, at least semi-entertaining. And his stories were rattled out in what remained of a voice. The husk of a voice. A voice attacked by years of cigarette and meth and reefer smoking, by years of nightly screaming matches between him and his 6 daughters and wife, and most from his inability to stop talking. He sounded like a toad.

Which I always enjoyed the hell out of.

Today Bill is not on the ball however, and he is rambling about some foreclosure or repo in which he had to tell some bank to “kiss his smelly ass”.

Naw dude! I really told em that shit!! For real! You think I'm liyin' but huh, yeah, it happened!

I believed him. I was just distracted.

Earlier this morning I was laying in bed with Kristy and for now, I love Kristy.

I met her at my bar, made sure she overheard a story I was telling and made her laugh all night, offered her a night of free movie watching at my place, and then had sex with her. I have about 7 hours of interaction total with this person and much of that was sleeping, but I'm not lying. I love her. For now.

I remember how she laughs, how she looks in her overdone makeup, how she tells me about 'loving weird movies like American Psycho', how she seems sincere, how she seems like she may be dumb but she's not. She gets the weird references. She knows a few good books. She had a nerd brother so she likes nerd stuff. She's a 10. This morning when I dropped her off in one of my t-shirts and an Egg McMuffin (parting gifts) she smiled and hugged my neck and said her goodbyes without seeming morose. She won't want a return call from me. If you drop a girl off at her house and she doesn't seem a little sad, then you just had a one-night stand my friend. She doesn't want to be with you. She just wanted to be with you. She'll respond to texts from now on but she will never answer a phone call. I don't even try. This is when I start getting over her.

I'll be 100% over her at around 3:30p.m.

No hard feelings. We will joke and be friendly when we see each other out. We will facebook flirt. Once in a blue moon, she'll come home with me again, but that's all. My reputation keeps me in a lot of beds, but very few hearts and this has worked out well for the last few years.

Which is the saddest fucking thing I can imagine.

I shake it off and start listening to Bill's latest story.

So yeah, she came with Shorty Craig to see me one time in the clink, right. So, I says to Craig that I can get her on the list and I really liked her and she seemed cool as hell or whatnot and that good woman came to see me e'ry damn week I was in that hellhole. And that's where we got married! I ain't bullshittin you! In the clink!

Sounds romantic to me.

When I get home my cat reminds me that she needs to be fed, and not the hard stuff today. Just the canned stuff.

Yes Maam. I love being my cat's butler. A constant reminder for me to stay humble...at least to her.

After a few well placed scrubs on her calico butt, I feed her and walk back to my room. I put on my sleep/workout shorts and dark grey wife beater and in casting off my jeans notice the residue on the pillow. The Makeup Ghost. A smeared representation of the night before. I can smell her in the bed.

I take off the sheets. Take off the pillow cases. Throw them in the washer and get over it. When you have a 3 year relationship and you're not really over it you gotta throw it all away. Photos, poems, love notes, dead flowers, ticket stubs, they all gotta go.
I call it laundry day.

I replace my sheets with the spare set that my sister left me. All 100% victoria secret pink. She thought it was a great joke. I do too. So I use them as my backup whilst I erase women in the washing machine.

I draw, write, play video games, eat, beer, and camel wide before I nuzzle into that snuggly pink bed and turn on cartoons for me to sleep to. In the dusk of my consciousness I check my phone. 5 missed calls. They are all bill collectors. And one text.

Mary: I never knew you were the biggest asshole on the planet! Forget my number ASSHOLE!

I delete the message, delete the number, and snuggle deeper into my warm. Pink. Sheets.

Creature: Introduction

I have always preferred Camel Wides. They seem to fit my large stature better than the average cigarette. After having a nearly exclusive smoking history with Camel Wides, I am immediately aware that the cigarette I am now smoking is definitely not a Wide.

I know this even despite the blindfold.

Smoking is a tidal activity for me. The ebb and flow. The nicotide comes in and I'll chain smoke, shelling out clouds and rings with a nonchalance that would make Mr. Caterpillar fear for the future of my bronchial alveolar and sometimes the tide would sink back and the very thought of a cigarette would make my overly sensitive stomach churn and heat up and I can almost feel the ulcer forming in it's lining. Even the smell would repulse me, when only a week earlier I could smoke a wide from start to finish and never even take the damned thing out of my mouth. At the time of the crest, the cigarette would sooth me and yet activate me at the same time.

I am the sniper.

Likewise, when the wave subsides, wides send me into a trembling fit and I'm useless for about 15 minutes, the general span of a cigarette's effect. These phases seem to be triggered by nothing. Seasons, emotions, moon cycle, alcohol level, cool factor, nothing seems to affect it. I never feel like I NEED a cigarette even if sometimes I may desperately WANT one.

Until. This. One.

This one, I NEED.

More than I need food, or water, or love, or family or, most ironically, air.

I need this cigarette because I'm being killed and there's nothing but smoking to do about it.

2009 Movie Reviews for your Ugly Ass Face!

One of my resolutions for 2KX is to start blogging again.

You lucky devils.

Here are Griff's top 10 movies for 2009! Please feel free to comment and disagree and cause a ruckus. I love that.

And also keep in mind taht I missed A LOT of movie this year due to lack of funds and transportation so don't go throwing "The Hurt Locker" in my face just yet :)

Without further ado...

10. Drag Me to Hell
Not many people will agree with this.

Screw. You.

This is daddy's list.

Drag Me to Hell is fun. Fun to a degree that will make you retarded for about an hour after watching it. Oh to be retard happy every day! It's Looney Tunes packaged beside Texas Chainsaw Massacre in a Peterbilt driven by Sam Rami.

Now that's a ride!

My only beef with it is it relied a bit much on CGI but it's forgivable because I got to see an anvil fall on someone's head in a mainstream Hollywood feature!

You don't have to drag me to Hell. I'm ready whenever you are!

You buy the popcorn.



Fantastic Mr. Fox
Wowwwwwwww. This movie purdy. And funny. AND smart. AND AND AND...hell. It's just good! Great story by Roald Dahl with a even greater execution by Wes Anderson this simple tale works AMAZINGLY well with Wes Anderson's subtle illustrative style of storytelling. I really hope that this isn't the the last stop motion venture that Anderson walks on because it is simply his best movie to date. Now, Rushmore and The Royal Tenenbaums come close and he will be getting movie ticket money from me next time no matter what he throws up on that big silver God, but this film is just too good not to expound upon.

I REALLY wish he was doing a stop motion Alice in Wonderland, but I know that won't happen...even tough it would be...Fantastic.


Coraline
Dear Mr. Gaiman,

I love you sir. I wish to have your babies.

Bests,

griff “THE EMPIRE” smith

I love this story. I love the world that is created. I love the visuals, the themes, the allusions. The inside of my brain looks and plays like this movie.

I have devoted much of my life to a love of children's literature and it's obvious that the makers of this film “get it”. This movie bears the burden of CENTURIES of thematic elements and is as faithful and poetic with them to a degree that the Brothers Grimm would put down their cheddar wurst and say, “Aus es güd, ya!”

Ya! It's very güd!



Star Trek
This movie SHOULD NOT be as awesome as it is, but dammit it is awesome. Freekin awesome. I hope George Lucas stopped counting his ill-gotten gains long enough to watch this movie and have it shrink his manhood a little.

This movie made Star Trek cool.

DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD THAT IS!?!?

Now, I've been a Trek fan for just about as long as I can remember and I understand what comes along with that (not a lot of sex) but this movie boldly went went where no Trek film has gone before.

This movie went cool.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go clean my tricorder...dammit.



The Hangover
This is one of the funniest movies in recorded history. One of my top ten favorite comedies of all time. Maybe top five and before you can say that it's just a raunchy sophomoric comedic brain killer you need to put down the coloring book and listen.

The BRILLIANCE of this movie is that it allows your imagination to fill in the gaps. It hides the monster from the movie. You only see glimpses into the the night that holds the core of the comedy. Whatever you can imagine is FAR funnier than what would actually come into play. This makes the film a very personalized experience for whomever watches it. It's a really smart way to approach the ridiculous humor that completely spackles it.

And no Mom, you're still not allowed to watch it.


Paranormal Activity
Ho. Lee. Shit.

This movie is scary. Mean scary. Not nice scary like Rob Zombie's Halloween starring Griffin Smith. Mean scary. Rosemary's Baby scary. Having problems sleeping scary.

Goooooooooood movie.

Watch it alone, at night and get mad at me for telling you too.

If you get too scared, just ask and snuggles will be provided...not by me...I'm no snuggle slut, but Zsa Zsa is always down.


Inglorious Basterds
“Actually, Werner, we're all tickled to here you say that. Frankly, watchin' Donny beat Nazis to death is is the closest we ever get to goin' to the movies.”

And it's some of the most fun you can have at the movies.

Tarantino does it again and again and again in this shit-kicker of a movie.

This movie works. The characters, the actors, the story, the cinematography are all home runs and if Christoph Waltz doesn't get a best supporting nomination for this movie then everything must die. He acts so well that it'll make you throw a shoe at the movie screen.

Trust me. I did.


Avatar
It's been a good year for smart Sci Fi. Avatar is an experience. James Cameron once again proves that he can sequence action better than anyone out there and wrap the whole package up in a 162 minute eye-orgasm just because he thinks we've been good.

Thank You, Daddy.

Oh and the story is amazing as well. Preachy in a lot of areas but not in a bad way. Yes it's a total Pocahontas story but in a way that will make you're third-eye cry. Not in a sad indian on the side of the road kinda way...

I sense my metaphors are growing wild.

Let me wrangle them up by saying, if you haven't seen Avatar, get off your ass and see it TODAY! Don't deprive yourself of the greatest 3d experience to date. If you wait till the dvd release you WILL regret it and imagine how ashamed you'll be when your grandkids ask if you saw it in 3d and you gotta say, “Nooooo, Pappy was a loser.”

Don't suck.

Go see Avatar.


District 9
District 9 isn't for everyone. You have to be susceptible to emotional shifts. You have to be smart. You have to like robots and aliens. You have to “Get it”.

Now that I have laid the “Emperor's New Clothes” framework around this review, District 9 kicks ass! A film that manages to make such character shifts and sociological intricacies and still puts a guy in a mech with a gravity gun makes my nerd bits tickle.

Beyond stunning effects and action, District 9 made me think. District 9 made me a better person because it showed me how not to look at things and people by blatantly rubbing my nose in how I currently look at them.

Thank you District 9 for your dirty comedy, political commentary and bloody action. District 9 is an instant cult classic. So if you have a brain, a heart and hard-on for nerdiness then I'm sure we're seeing eye to eye on D9.

If not, then hit the bricks Dorothy. Go watch Transformers 2 and eat some glue.


1. Up
Up is a dream.

100% deadly imagination, saturated in everything that is good. I can't think of any part of this movie that is less than wonderful. If you don't feel, at least, the PULL to cry in this movie then you have no soul.

You might want to write whatever God you prescribe to and ask for another.

Maybe I'm just a mushy assed romantic but this film magically captures life, love, and loss in a world that is very different from our own. It's genius lies in using our base human emotion to completely wrap us in a world where dogs talk, snipe exist, and adventure is just a couple of balloons away.

I can watch this movie and feel alive and life, after all, is but a dream.