"Get your fingers out of there!"
Her mother snapped as she spanked Lyndsee's hand away from the cookie dough. The seven-year-old fair-headed child sprung back, rubbing the loose skin on her hand. Her face shriveled up like silly putty into a pout. Her lower lip swelled pink and juicy while her brow furrowed like a melting candle.
Lyndsee has the ability to mold and push her face into the most abstract cartoonish expressions. She suffers from Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS) also known as Cutis Hyperelastica. This rare genetic disease results in the defective production of collagen which breaks down the ability to hold the skin together. Because of this, she has become the class clown. She gets the kids rolling with her "bat wings" impression where she clasps her checks and spans them out like wings on the side of her face. This is only one of her many infamous impressions including "choking crane" "bloated frog" and "smiling anteater".
Lyndsee's mouth pools with drool as she watches her mother mixing a chocolate chip chocolate cookie mix. Mmm mmm mmm! Finger licking good! Now if only she could get her fingers in there to try it. Her mother dumps in a tablespoon of vanilla extract. The aroma of cookie dough stings the hot kitchen air from the preheating oven.
Cookies are amazing when they are cooked. The warm crunch on the outside holds in the hot buttery chew. For this short fifteen minute period, the solid state of a chocolate chip defies the laws of physics and becomes a steaming dripping mess of goodness. This is decadence. But on the flip side, bliss is the taste of raw cookie dough. Cool, textural folds of pleasure, swelling with ingredients in their purest form. The billows of sugar-filled fluff wrap around solid clumps of tangy chocolate. Both experiences demand indulgence. Hell and Heaven.
Lyndsee watches as her mother dumps in a bag of chocolate chips. The little black babies plunge in cheering with joy. Lyndsee licks her face with the extra elasticity of her tongue. Her mother sets the mixer on high; A tempting carousal of chocolate temptation.
DLING. DLING. The phone rings in the other room.
Lyndsee is warned, "Leave it alone," just before her mother exits the kitchen.
The yakity-yak of her mother's gossip becomes muffled as the sound of the mixer grows louder in Lyndsee's head. The glass bowl whirls around, displaying every glistening chocolate chip with each rotation. At this point, the lure has Lyndsee's eyeballs pulsating. If she really was a cartoon, this would be the point she blows her smokestack. Her jaw would drop, unraveling a five-foot tongue, as horns blare A-OOGA!!!
From the living room a sound is heard similar to a car driving over a wooden bridge with open gaps and uneven planks. Quickly, a wet Shammy is ripped off the sucking hose of a vacuum. This is jammed up quickly releasing the sound of a frustrated motor unable to turn. The grunt becomes tiresome, slowing to a barely audible exasperation.
Lyndsee's mother drops the phone and runs into the kitchen. The mixer has given up, bundled up in bloody skin as if it were a scarf. On the kitchen floor lays the meaty remains of Lyndsee. Her right arm still raised in the air with her bony index finger extended. On the tip is a dollop of chocolate chip chocolate cookie dough.
Copyright 2011, Gris Grimly
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
MAKE LIFE AMUSING-SUBSCRIBE TO HATE...
I'm not one to judge when it comes to being a hater. I hate many things myself. I don't necessarily hate people, but I hate many of the actions that represent people.
I hate when people talk on cell phones at inappropriate times. Maybe not so much, because what is the difference between talking on the cell phone and talking to your present company. Maybe I just hate the type of people who do so and the crap that spills out of their mouth. While we're on the subject, I hate those little ear pieces. Maybe it's not the ear pieces that I hate because I understand that they serve a hands-free purpose. Maybe I just hate the type of people who wear them all the time because they look like cyborgs. I hate when people bring their little dogs into public buildings and cafes. Maybe it doesn't bother me so much because there isn't much of an option for dog owners when they're out with their dog. Maybe I just hate the type of people who do so proudly exercising their privilege.
As you can see, who am I to judge. I have these little negative thoughts myself that get me all fired up and end up becoming a long debate with the person I'm with.
When does hate become a positive thing? Usually hate is NEVER positive, especially when it becomes an act of violence towards an individual or a group. This usually just spreads like cancer to cause more hate and violence towards a group. Interesting how this theme is emerging on Martin Luther King day. But my focus is not about racial discrimination or violence. It is about when hate brings much amusement and humor into an individuals life.
My girlfriend and I drove up to Santa Barbara wine country to get away for the weekend. Her car has a burnt out headlamp (which I've been meaning to fix. But due to the construction of the car I have to remove the front bumper and this daunting task is easily becoming the source of much procrastination). So we've been driving at night with the high beams on. I understand that this is a slight annoyance...but it can be easily ignored...right?
So you can imagine my amusement when someone completely flips their lid. We're heading up the 101 (somewhere around Calabasas) when a pickup truck ahead of us slows down, let's us pass, merges into our lane and turns on his high beams. Okay. That's a bit proactive. Usually you'll get flashed which most likely is a courtesy to say "Hey. Your brights are on" but this was a bit ridiculous.
After a couple miles I was wondering if this was helping him therapeutically and what is the subscribed mileage (or time) length needed for the cure. Eventually, he turned off his high beams, passed us and went on his raging way.
Did the act help him? Probably not. He probably went home and spent the next hour bitching to his wife about what happened on his way home from work.
Or maybe he went on his merrily way (Having forgotten the incident altogether), kissed his wife when he walked in the door and made love to her for hours.
How should I know. Maybe I'm just as bad for focusing on this event for as long as I have, allowing it to consume so much of my thoughts and time. I mean shit...I just spent the last hour writing a blog about it.
You have to love humans.
Copyright 2011, Gris Grimly
I hate when people talk on cell phones at inappropriate times. Maybe not so much, because what is the difference between talking on the cell phone and talking to your present company. Maybe I just hate the type of people who do so and the crap that spills out of their mouth. While we're on the subject, I hate those little ear pieces. Maybe it's not the ear pieces that I hate because I understand that they serve a hands-free purpose. Maybe I just hate the type of people who wear them all the time because they look like cyborgs. I hate when people bring their little dogs into public buildings and cafes. Maybe it doesn't bother me so much because there isn't much of an option for dog owners when they're out with their dog. Maybe I just hate the type of people who do so proudly exercising their privilege.
As you can see, who am I to judge. I have these little negative thoughts myself that get me all fired up and end up becoming a long debate with the person I'm with.
When does hate become a positive thing? Usually hate is NEVER positive, especially when it becomes an act of violence towards an individual or a group. This usually just spreads like cancer to cause more hate and violence towards a group. Interesting how this theme is emerging on Martin Luther King day. But my focus is not about racial discrimination or violence. It is about when hate brings much amusement and humor into an individuals life.
My girlfriend and I drove up to Santa Barbara wine country to get away for the weekend. Her car has a burnt out headlamp (which I've been meaning to fix. But due to the construction of the car I have to remove the front bumper and this daunting task is easily becoming the source of much procrastination). So we've been driving at night with the high beams on. I understand that this is a slight annoyance...but it can be easily ignored...right?
So you can imagine my amusement when someone completely flips their lid. We're heading up the 101 (somewhere around Calabasas) when a pickup truck ahead of us slows down, let's us pass, merges into our lane and turns on his high beams. Okay. That's a bit proactive. Usually you'll get flashed which most likely is a courtesy to say "Hey. Your brights are on" but this was a bit ridiculous.
After a couple miles I was wondering if this was helping him therapeutically and what is the subscribed mileage (or time) length needed for the cure. Eventually, he turned off his high beams, passed us and went on his raging way.
Did the act help him? Probably not. He probably went home and spent the next hour bitching to his wife about what happened on his way home from work.
Or maybe he went on his merrily way (Having forgotten the incident altogether), kissed his wife when he walked in the door and made love to her for hours.
How should I know. Maybe I'm just as bad for focusing on this event for as long as I have, allowing it to consume so much of my thoughts and time. I mean shit...I just spent the last hour writing a blog about it.
You have to love humans.
Copyright 2011, Gris Grimly
Thursday, January 13, 2011
THE BITCH SHOT A RATTLESNAKE...
Our safety became uncertain when we ceased to see signs of civilization for miles. The desert canyon road weaved deeper and deeper into the mountains. Maybe movies get the best of me. I need to remember that "The Hills Have Eyes" is fiction. It's a story that someone made up to scare people. That shit doesn't really happen.
Dad doesn't seem concerned, driving the olive green with wooden panel station wagon deeper into the valley. But then again, when does he ever show emotion. My two younger brothers, Mike and Ike, are in the back bouncing off each other when they should be sitting quietly playing one of the 20 different car games that were purchased for them. My sister, Tish, is obliviously transmitting pop serum into her brain with Justin Bieber and Lady Gaga on her Ipod. My mom seems to be the only one concerned with our impeding doom. She shifts in her seat and fills the silence with irrelevant conversations. She has that nervous laughter she gets when something isn't right. It's the kind of laughter that never follows a humorous moment and isn't very uplifting. But then again, I could be speculating ALL of this. I've been known to do that now and then.
My mom breaks the silence. "Hector,..." That's my name "...look at those silly little sculptures." Yeah mom. Silly.
I have an issue with rusty metal sculptures. I keep picturing a burly man whose beard and head hair runs all the way down to his toes. Under the black-stained overalls he glistens from what looks like Crisco rubbed all over his flesh. But I don't think about it long enough to make any conclusions. He has a shop full of sharp and dangerous tools including mallets, jigsaws, hole punches and axes. Let's not forget table saws, drills, vice grips and oscillating tools. I don't even know what an oscillating tool is, but the name alone evokes images of pain. He's good with tools, especially wielding metal, and needs a creative outlet. These two things don't go well together.
"Hector. Look at that. How creative."
They slightly resemble deer if their anatomy was re-imagined in hubcaps and pipes, modeled after the mutated wildlife in "Prophecy". No mom. That is not silly what-so-ever.
Tish releases a twinkie from it's polyurethane wrapper and lifts it slowly to her face. Somewhere between Bieber's "Never Let You Go" and Miley Cyrus's "Can't Be Tamed", she nibbles off the head and sucks out the innards. I don't know how she can eat that shit. There's nothing edible to it. Hostess has more in common with Exxon than any food group.
We pass a rusty lawnmower abandoned off the side of the road, grazing in a patch of prairie grass. Or maybe it's a buffalo. At this point, it's becoming unclear what is metal sculpture and what is neglected scrap. A thicket of mailboxes becomes confusing considering there are only a couple trailers in sight. Then it dawns on me. THIS IS THE POINT OF NO RETURN. These twenty-some mailboxes sprouting out of the same mound mark the furthest point the mailman ventures. Inhabitants from miles around come here to get their mail. Twenty-some red metal flags stand up as a warning: PROCEED WITH CAUTION. ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER. THE STATE SHALL NOT BE HELD RESPONSIBLE TO INJURY OR DEATH RESULTING TO PERSONS TRESPASSING BEYOND THIS POINT.
We proceed. My family, the station wagon and the trailer we pull are now in the hands of the desert cannibals. Tish hasn't seen a bar on her cell phone for miles. May god have mercy on our prying souls.
The map tells us we are close. Good. We've voyaged far beyond the safety of civilization. Even the rusty metal sculptures know better than to venture into these parts. The crack house up ahead on the right is imprisoned inside a cage. It could be the remains of a nuclear fall out. Large black carnivores pace the yard with crazed restlessness. From this distance they could be Argentine Dogo or maybe genetically bred grizzly bears crossed with tigers. Dear god, I hope that's not our destination.
Nope. The trailer on the left matches the address. We turn up the driveway, passing a sign that reads PUPPIES OF LOVE. The craters and ruts that decorate the lane is a good indication that few travel this path. The trailer rocks back and forth shaking the station wagon on it's axles. Tish checks her phone for bars. It's an amusing addiction she has. Her impulse defies her own logic.
My dad pulls the station wagon onto a platform of gravel that surrounds the trailer like a mote. Gear in Park. Key turns off. All is quiet.
What now? Do we call? Do we knock? The suspense attempts murder.
A tense aluminum spring draws all of our heads forward to an opening screen door. A seventy-some year old crotchety woman comes out of the trailer holding a shotgun. Gray stringy hair hangs from her balding scalp like spiderwebs. A breeze blows through carrying a few strands off into the clouds. She hobbles towards the station wagon. Her rat tits, supported by no bra, swing back and forth. She doesn't have any teeth on her lower jaw which allows her to make turtle faces with no effort. This is Debbie, the woman we came to see.
"You here for the puppies?" She mouths.
My dad gets out of the station wagon and closes the door behind him. All the world outside this beat-up Chevy Caprice is silent. My mom starts up conversation with Tish about whether or not they have Applebees out here. I remain alert to the deal making at hand. My dad and Debbie mouth words but I can't make out what they are saying. I felt a dodge ball to the gut when my dad turns to me and fingers me to come. I lift the door handle until it screams "click". I don't remember these doors being so heavy. The hinges lurch. Even with a slight swing, the door slams shut.
The wind blows warm and with no breaks out here. My dad and this gun totting hag are frozen in their stares as I approach. The distance seems to be the same with every step I take. All of a sudden, I am beside them as my dad says, "Do you want to see them?" I can't take my eyes off the 12-gauge in her hands. I never thought this could be dangerous.
Debbie leads us with her mesmerizing swagger. "You have to watch out for rattlesnakes here," she says in witch dialect. "They'll jump out and get you."
The hair on her chin glistens with sunlight as the wind wiggles it.
"I had one jump out at me today."
We approach the tail end of a rusted old Ford pickup. "I shot him," she assures me staring into the bed of the truck. I slowly look over to find the bloody mangled mess that was once a rattlesnake opened up like a dissected worm in biology class. "It had more rattles than that. But I blew some off when I shot him".
This was one mean bitch. This is the kind of grit that no women and very few men have these days. Yessiree. This here is a rare artifact that stands before me.
But we didn't come for the dead rattlesnake. We came for what was in the 18-wheeler. She leads us up a desert hill to a parked flatbed. By the time dad and I breathlessly reach the top, she is already jiggling a key in the lock. Lock disabled. Latch unhinged. Door swings open.
Before us bubbles a furry sea of one hundred-some scrappy-fluffy puppies. To reference geek culture, this 18-wheeler has been infested by Tribbles. Everything from Cocker Spaniels, Pomeranians, Yorkies, Shih Tzus, Malteses (and every small breed in-between) happily bounce off each other yapping like a choir. The sound is glorious.
The shotgun echoes as we drive away with a trailer full of puppies. I look back to see Debbie in the distance aiming the shotgun at the ground. The bitch shot a rattlesnake. The station wagon runs over something which springs us bouncing on the hot vinyl seats. It was probably a rusty metal cat in the road. Was it scary? At times. Were our lives in danger? Most likely not. But we are going to eat like KINGS.
The End
Copyright 2011 Gris Grimly
Dad doesn't seem concerned, driving the olive green with wooden panel station wagon deeper into the valley. But then again, when does he ever show emotion. My two younger brothers, Mike and Ike, are in the back bouncing off each other when they should be sitting quietly playing one of the 20 different car games that were purchased for them. My sister, Tish, is obliviously transmitting pop serum into her brain with Justin Bieber and Lady Gaga on her Ipod. My mom seems to be the only one concerned with our impeding doom. She shifts in her seat and fills the silence with irrelevant conversations. She has that nervous laughter she gets when something isn't right. It's the kind of laughter that never follows a humorous moment and isn't very uplifting. But then again, I could be speculating ALL of this. I've been known to do that now and then.
My mom breaks the silence. "Hector,..." That's my name "...look at those silly little sculptures." Yeah mom. Silly.
I have an issue with rusty metal sculptures. I keep picturing a burly man whose beard and head hair runs all the way down to his toes. Under the black-stained overalls he glistens from what looks like Crisco rubbed all over his flesh. But I don't think about it long enough to make any conclusions. He has a shop full of sharp and dangerous tools including mallets, jigsaws, hole punches and axes. Let's not forget table saws, drills, vice grips and oscillating tools. I don't even know what an oscillating tool is, but the name alone evokes images of pain. He's good with tools, especially wielding metal, and needs a creative outlet. These two things don't go well together.
"Hector. Look at that. How creative."
They slightly resemble deer if their anatomy was re-imagined in hubcaps and pipes, modeled after the mutated wildlife in "Prophecy". No mom. That is not silly what-so-ever.
Tish releases a twinkie from it's polyurethane wrapper and lifts it slowly to her face. Somewhere between Bieber's "Never Let You Go" and Miley Cyrus's "Can't Be Tamed", she nibbles off the head and sucks out the innards. I don't know how she can eat that shit. There's nothing edible to it. Hostess has more in common with Exxon than any food group.
We pass a rusty lawnmower abandoned off the side of the road, grazing in a patch of prairie grass. Or maybe it's a buffalo. At this point, it's becoming unclear what is metal sculpture and what is neglected scrap. A thicket of mailboxes becomes confusing considering there are only a couple trailers in sight. Then it dawns on me. THIS IS THE POINT OF NO RETURN. These twenty-some mailboxes sprouting out of the same mound mark the furthest point the mailman ventures. Inhabitants from miles around come here to get their mail. Twenty-some red metal flags stand up as a warning: PROCEED WITH CAUTION. ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER. THE STATE SHALL NOT BE HELD RESPONSIBLE TO INJURY OR DEATH RESULTING TO PERSONS TRESPASSING BEYOND THIS POINT.
We proceed. My family, the station wagon and the trailer we pull are now in the hands of the desert cannibals. Tish hasn't seen a bar on her cell phone for miles. May god have mercy on our prying souls.
The map tells us we are close. Good. We've voyaged far beyond the safety of civilization. Even the rusty metal sculptures know better than to venture into these parts. The crack house up ahead on the right is imprisoned inside a cage. It could be the remains of a nuclear fall out. Large black carnivores pace the yard with crazed restlessness. From this distance they could be Argentine Dogo or maybe genetically bred grizzly bears crossed with tigers. Dear god, I hope that's not our destination.
Nope. The trailer on the left matches the address. We turn up the driveway, passing a sign that reads PUPPIES OF LOVE. The craters and ruts that decorate the lane is a good indication that few travel this path. The trailer rocks back and forth shaking the station wagon on it's axles. Tish checks her phone for bars. It's an amusing addiction she has. Her impulse defies her own logic.
My dad pulls the station wagon onto a platform of gravel that surrounds the trailer like a mote. Gear in Park. Key turns off. All is quiet.
What now? Do we call? Do we knock? The suspense attempts murder.
A tense aluminum spring draws all of our heads forward to an opening screen door. A seventy-some year old crotchety woman comes out of the trailer holding a shotgun. Gray stringy hair hangs from her balding scalp like spiderwebs. A breeze blows through carrying a few strands off into the clouds. She hobbles towards the station wagon. Her rat tits, supported by no bra, swing back and forth. She doesn't have any teeth on her lower jaw which allows her to make turtle faces with no effort. This is Debbie, the woman we came to see.
"You here for the puppies?" She mouths.
My dad gets out of the station wagon and closes the door behind him. All the world outside this beat-up Chevy Caprice is silent. My mom starts up conversation with Tish about whether or not they have Applebees out here. I remain alert to the deal making at hand. My dad and Debbie mouth words but I can't make out what they are saying. I felt a dodge ball to the gut when my dad turns to me and fingers me to come. I lift the door handle until it screams "click". I don't remember these doors being so heavy. The hinges lurch. Even with a slight swing, the door slams shut.
The wind blows warm and with no breaks out here. My dad and this gun totting hag are frozen in their stares as I approach. The distance seems to be the same with every step I take. All of a sudden, I am beside them as my dad says, "Do you want to see them?" I can't take my eyes off the 12-gauge in her hands. I never thought this could be dangerous.
Debbie leads us with her mesmerizing swagger. "You have to watch out for rattlesnakes here," she says in witch dialect. "They'll jump out and get you."
The hair on her chin glistens with sunlight as the wind wiggles it.
"I had one jump out at me today."
We approach the tail end of a rusted old Ford pickup. "I shot him," she assures me staring into the bed of the truck. I slowly look over to find the bloody mangled mess that was once a rattlesnake opened up like a dissected worm in biology class. "It had more rattles than that. But I blew some off when I shot him".
This was one mean bitch. This is the kind of grit that no women and very few men have these days. Yessiree. This here is a rare artifact that stands before me.
But we didn't come for the dead rattlesnake. We came for what was in the 18-wheeler. She leads us up a desert hill to a parked flatbed. By the time dad and I breathlessly reach the top, she is already jiggling a key in the lock. Lock disabled. Latch unhinged. Door swings open.
Before us bubbles a furry sea of one hundred-some scrappy-fluffy puppies. To reference geek culture, this 18-wheeler has been infested by Tribbles. Everything from Cocker Spaniels, Pomeranians, Yorkies, Shih Tzus, Malteses (and every small breed in-between) happily bounce off each other yapping like a choir. The sound is glorious.
The shotgun echoes as we drive away with a trailer full of puppies. I look back to see Debbie in the distance aiming the shotgun at the ground. The bitch shot a rattlesnake. The station wagon runs over something which springs us bouncing on the hot vinyl seats. It was probably a rusty metal cat in the road. Was it scary? At times. Were our lives in danger? Most likely not. But we are going to eat like KINGS.
The End
Copyright 2011 Gris Grimly
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
UNCONDITIONAL LOVE...
I'm an asshole.
That's what I told my girlfriend when we started dating. Maybe asshole isn't the correct word. I'm a curmudgeon. I'm cynical. I'm stubborn as a mule. And I'm set in my ways. I'm not easily moved emotionally (Or maybe I just don't express it). Excitement is just a half a notch up from bored for me. I don't like change. And I HATE pets and small children.
So you could imagine the reaction I got from friends and family when I bought a 2-month-old Boston Terrier in the spring of 2010. This cataclysmic change happened for a number of reasons. First of all, my MCP brother Pete and I had been discussing getting a dog for about a year previous. It seemed like an alright thing to do at the time. And if I set my mind to doing something I sure as hell make it happen. Another reason was at the time I needed a buddy that would stand by me and remain as true blue as I.
The actual act of getting the dog came to me by fate more than anything. I knew I wanted a male Boston Terrier. I wanted to buy from a breeder rather than rescue one from a shelter. I wanted to raise the dog from a pup so that I could experience all the trials and tribulations that came along with it. I want to know that the final result (negative or positive) has to do with the choices I made as a "father".
Some time had passed and my MCP sister Christy asked when I was going to get a dog. I told her I wasn't ready yet. Her wise words are the same words you hear when people talk about having children- "If you are waiting for the right time, it will never be the right time. You just have to do it." I'm sure I completely butchered the saying in my paraphrase, but you get the idea.
Shortly after, I was at a BBQ celebrating the matrimony between two of my closest friends. A discussion broke out pertaining to dogs and I mentioned wanting to buy a Boston Terrier. Someone in the group chimed in saying "My boss is going to pick up one on Thursday". In further discussions, I found out that the breeder was only a couple hours away (which is much closer than the breeder I was looking at 13 hours away), the price was right and the dog fit my specifications to a "T". Out of the liter, they had ONE Boston left and it was a male.
Short story long, I drove up and picked up Cash (named after the "man in black" not the "notes in green"). Not only was he what I wanted, but he was healthy and had perfect Boston markings. We've been side by side now for almost a year. Even though he has his "puppy" moments, he is a good kid. Surprisingly, I've grown to love him more than anything or anyone else in my life.
That may be harsh to say having siblings, two living parents, the MCP crew and my selfless girlfriend who never ceases to amaze me. But there is a love that grows from raising a living creature. Cash is alive because I feed him and take care of him. Now I know what unconditional love is. So last night, when I dreamt that Cash got his throat ripped out by a mountain lion and I held him in a pool of blood, you can understand why I cried.
I still hate dogs and small children. But damn it, my dog is the best.
Copyright 2011 Gris Grimly
That's what I told my girlfriend when we started dating. Maybe asshole isn't the correct word. I'm a curmudgeon. I'm cynical. I'm stubborn as a mule. And I'm set in my ways. I'm not easily moved emotionally (Or maybe I just don't express it). Excitement is just a half a notch up from bored for me. I don't like change. And I HATE pets and small children.
So you could imagine the reaction I got from friends and family when I bought a 2-month-old Boston Terrier in the spring of 2010. This cataclysmic change happened for a number of reasons. First of all, my MCP brother Pete and I had been discussing getting a dog for about a year previous. It seemed like an alright thing to do at the time. And if I set my mind to doing something I sure as hell make it happen. Another reason was at the time I needed a buddy that would stand by me and remain as true blue as I.
The actual act of getting the dog came to me by fate more than anything. I knew I wanted a male Boston Terrier. I wanted to buy from a breeder rather than rescue one from a shelter. I wanted to raise the dog from a pup so that I could experience all the trials and tribulations that came along with it. I want to know that the final result (negative or positive) has to do with the choices I made as a "father".
Some time had passed and my MCP sister Christy asked when I was going to get a dog. I told her I wasn't ready yet. Her wise words are the same words you hear when people talk about having children- "If you are waiting for the right time, it will never be the right time. You just have to do it." I'm sure I completely butchered the saying in my paraphrase, but you get the idea.
Shortly after, I was at a BBQ celebrating the matrimony between two of my closest friends. A discussion broke out pertaining to dogs and I mentioned wanting to buy a Boston Terrier. Someone in the group chimed in saying "My boss is going to pick up one on Thursday". In further discussions, I found out that the breeder was only a couple hours away (which is much closer than the breeder I was looking at 13 hours away), the price was right and the dog fit my specifications to a "T". Out of the liter, they had ONE Boston left and it was a male.
Short story long, I drove up and picked up Cash (named after the "man in black" not the "notes in green"). Not only was he what I wanted, but he was healthy and had perfect Boston markings. We've been side by side now for almost a year. Even though he has his "puppy" moments, he is a good kid. Surprisingly, I've grown to love him more than anything or anyone else in my life.
That may be harsh to say having siblings, two living parents, the MCP crew and my selfless girlfriend who never ceases to amaze me. But there is a love that grows from raising a living creature. Cash is alive because I feed him and take care of him. Now I know what unconditional love is. So last night, when I dreamt that Cash got his throat ripped out by a mountain lion and I held him in a pool of blood, you can understand why I cried.
I still hate dogs and small children. But damn it, my dog is the best.
Copyright 2011 Gris Grimly
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
KICK IN THE ASS
I'll be the first to admit my shortcomings (if I accept them as shortcomings). I'll also be the first to defend myself if I feel that my actions are being misconstrued as shortcomings when actually they are my personal eccentricities. As much as I romanticize about keeping a personal blog I've been completely incompetent at being faithful to this task. The convenience of social networks like Facebook and Twitter allow an easy way to sign on, jot down, get off. This format has become a preference of mine. Although I have to say I am fazing out Myspace due to my intolerance towards failing interfaces. If anyone cares to defend this recent makeover, please do.
As you can see, 2010 brought in two posts. TWO POSTS! Not only did I fail to contribute on a regular bases, the two posts that I did accomplish were copy/paste from my fan Nooseletter. I didn't even bother to log in and write anything specific. This cannot stand!
Here is my 2011 resolution: I will put forth my best efforts at logging into my personal account to write specifically for this Blog, if time allows, not to be held accountable for the possible lack of posts due to personal obligations. I will focus on original content pertaining to daily rants, the occasional tirades, and creative writing. This will not be a platform to copy/paste monthly newsletters or postings from subsidiary blogs (www.grisgrimlysfrankenstein.com). This shall endure to the best of my abilities as long as convenient circumstances allow.
In other words, I'm kicking myself in the ass to deliver a new and better Gris Grimly blog.
Copyright 2011 Gris Grimly
As you can see, 2010 brought in two posts. TWO POSTS! Not only did I fail to contribute on a regular bases, the two posts that I did accomplish were copy/paste from my fan Nooseletter. I didn't even bother to log in and write anything specific. This cannot stand!
Here is my 2011 resolution: I will put forth my best efforts at logging into my personal account to write specifically for this Blog, if time allows, not to be held accountable for the possible lack of posts due to personal obligations. I will focus on original content pertaining to daily rants, the occasional tirades, and creative writing. This will not be a platform to copy/paste monthly newsletters or postings from subsidiary blogs (www.grisgrimlysfrankenstein.com). This shall endure to the best of my abilities as long as convenient circumstances allow.
In other words, I'm kicking myself in the ass to deliver a new and better Gris Grimly blog.
Copyright 2011 Gris Grimly
Friday, July 2, 2010
Gris Grimly's July Nooseletter
Greetings Society of Graverobbers,
If you have been following me since the beginning of the year, you will recall that in January I announced that I would not be doing conventions in 2010. This was so that I could focus on other projects, mainly my first feature film Pinocchio. My theory was that by removing tasks from my plate, my focused attention on getting Pinocchio made would help it become a reality.
Well, it is working. About a month ago, Pinocchio received a development deal from the French studio, Pathe'. This budget goes to a small team for the next 10 to 12 weeks to develop a pitch for the film. Last week, we moved into a bungalow on the Jim Henson lot. I am working with a Co-Director (who's name I cannot announce at this point) leading a group of artists and designers into my imagined world of Pinocchio. We will also complete the screenplay and have two characters sculpted by the Manchester based team Mackinnon and Saunders (Corpse Bride, Fantastic Mr. Fox). We also have an amazing score composer on board and a voice talent that I am really excited about. But I can't announce these details yet. Produced by Guillermo Del Toro (Hellboy, Pan's Labyrinth, Devil's Backbone) and The Jim Henson company, this film is going to kick crypts.
As exciting as this is, it is still not 100%. After the development is completed in the fall, we have to pitch the film to studios to fund the production of the movie. If we blow their minds and the film gets greenlit, then we can celebrate! Hope for the best fiends.
SAN DIEGO COMIC CON
Needless to say, now that I am working full time as the director during this development stage I will not be at SAN DIEGO COMIC CON. But the Van Eaton Galleries will set up a section in their booth (509) dedicated to my merchandise. So even though I will not be there, you can still get your claws on the remaining Gris Grimly merchandise.
http://www.comic-con.org/cci/
San Diego Comic Con
July 21-25 2010
San Diego Convention Center
111 W. Harbor Dr.
San Diego, CA 92101
MCP ONLINE SALE!
To make up for not being at SDCC, this month i am running a sale on my webstore. Most merchandise is 30% to 50% off. Some shirts are only $5. I'm trying to clean out my inventory so that I can put aside the retailing of Gris Grimly merchandise. This is the remaining Gris Grimly merchandise (unless I get a licensing deal or start merchandising again) and shirts are selling out. Now is your only opportunity to get these items. Once they sell out, they are gone for good. So head over to http:www.madcreator.com/store to complete your collection during this sale.
http://www.madcreator.com/store
HOOTENANNY!
The one place I will be selling my goods is the SoCal rockabilly/car festival THE HOOTENANNY. If you are attending, look for the MCP booth to get merchandise for a super low price. We will be selling t-shirts for $5 and $10. If you wear a Gris Grimly shirt to the festival, we will give you free stuff. All other merchandise will be on sale as well. Help me clean out my inventory by taking advantage of my generosity...my gift to the loyal fiends. heh heh.
http://thehootenanny.com/
The Hootenanny
Saturday, July 3rd 2010
Oak Canyon Ranch
4700 Santiago Canyon Road
Silverado Canyon, CA
That is all for now. I need to get back to work solving story issues and working on designs for Pinocchio. I hope to see some of you at the Hootenanny as I will miss seeing you at Comic Con. Have a grim summer.
Be Grim!
Gris Grimly
If you have been following me since the beginning of the year, you will recall that in January I announced that I would not be doing conventions in 2010. This was so that I could focus on other projects, mainly my first feature film Pinocchio. My theory was that by removing tasks from my plate, my focused attention on getting Pinocchio made would help it become a reality.
Well, it is working. About a month ago, Pinocchio received a development deal from the French studio, Pathe'. This budget goes to a small team for the next 10 to 12 weeks to develop a pitch for the film. Last week, we moved into a bungalow on the Jim Henson lot. I am working with a Co-Director (who's name I cannot announce at this point) leading a group of artists and designers into my imagined world of Pinocchio. We will also complete the screenplay and have two characters sculpted by the Manchester based team Mackinnon and Saunders (Corpse Bride, Fantastic Mr. Fox). We also have an amazing score composer on board and a voice talent that I am really excited about. But I can't announce these details yet. Produced by Guillermo Del Toro (Hellboy, Pan's Labyrinth, Devil's Backbone) and The Jim Henson company, this film is going to kick crypts.
As exciting as this is, it is still not 100%. After the development is completed in the fall, we have to pitch the film to studios to fund the production of the movie. If we blow their minds and the film gets greenlit, then we can celebrate! Hope for the best fiends.
SAN DIEGO COMIC CON
Needless to say, now that I am working full time as the director during this development stage I will not be at SAN DIEGO COMIC CON. But the Van Eaton Galleries will set up a section in their booth (509) dedicated to my merchandise. So even though I will not be there, you can still get your claws on the remaining Gris Grimly merchandise.
http://www.comic-con.org/cci/
San Diego Comic Con
July 21-25 2010
San Diego Convention Center
111 W. Harbor Dr.
San Diego, CA 92101
MCP ONLINE SALE!
To make up for not being at SDCC, this month i am running a sale on my webstore. Most merchandise is 30% to 50% off. Some shirts are only $5. I'm trying to clean out my inventory so that I can put aside the retailing of Gris Grimly merchandise. This is the remaining Gris Grimly merchandise (unless I get a licensing deal or start merchandising again) and shirts are selling out. Now is your only opportunity to get these items. Once they sell out, they are gone for good. So head over to http:www.madcreator.com/store to complete your collection during this sale.
http://www.madcreator.com/store
HOOTENANNY!
The one place I will be selling my goods is the SoCal rockabilly/car festival THE HOOTENANNY. If you are attending, look for the MCP booth to get merchandise for a super low price. We will be selling t-shirts for $5 and $10. If you wear a Gris Grimly shirt to the festival, we will give you free stuff. All other merchandise will be on sale as well. Help me clean out my inventory by taking advantage of my generosity...my gift to the loyal fiends. heh heh.
http://thehootenanny.com/
The Hootenanny
Saturday, July 3rd 2010
Oak Canyon Ranch
4700 Santiago Canyon Road
Silverado Canyon, CA
That is all for now. I need to get back to work solving story issues and working on designs for Pinocchio. I hope to see some of you at the Hootenanny as I will miss seeing you at Comic Con. Have a grim summer.
Be Grim!
Gris Grimly
Friday, January 1, 2010
Happy New Year SOGs!
Happy New Year Society of Graverobbers!
Not only is there a change in year and decade, but there is a huge change in the MCP. First off, I will be putting my focus towards working and producing art and less in running a business. This is the year to make my animated feature Pinocchio happen. During the last year, there have been many exciting additions to the team and positive advancements towards this actually being a reality. But I have to make it my focus and give it all my energy.
What does this mean? I am fazing out a few elements of Mad Creator Productions. First, I will be taking a break from working conventions. This also means that I am going to put a hold on production and merchandising. I will miss seeing all of your grim faces, but it is just something I have to do right now.
I am fazing out the MCP online store as well. So take advantage of the many sales and deals that I will be offering you throughout the next few months in an effort to deplete stock. Who better deserves this offer than the loyal Society of Graverobbers. Currently, most of our t-shirts are anywhere from $5 to $10 throughout the month of January. Crazy...I know. Get your shirts now, because sizes are running out and I will not be reprinting or offering anything new any time soon. Go to www.madcreator.com.
Change can be scary, and sometimes a little sad saying goodbye to old habits. But this is something that I, Gris Grimly, need to do.
Here's to a blessed, prosperous and successful 2010 to us all!
Be Grim!
Gris Grimly
Not only is there a change in year and decade, but there is a huge change in the MCP. First off, I will be putting my focus towards working and producing art and less in running a business. This is the year to make my animated feature Pinocchio happen. During the last year, there have been many exciting additions to the team and positive advancements towards this actually being a reality. But I have to make it my focus and give it all my energy.
What does this mean? I am fazing out a few elements of Mad Creator Productions. First, I will be taking a break from working conventions. This also means that I am going to put a hold on production and merchandising. I will miss seeing all of your grim faces, but it is just something I have to do right now.
I am fazing out the MCP online store as well. So take advantage of the many sales and deals that I will be offering you throughout the next few months in an effort to deplete stock. Who better deserves this offer than the loyal Society of Graverobbers. Currently, most of our t-shirts are anywhere from $5 to $10 throughout the month of January. Crazy...I know. Get your shirts now, because sizes are running out and I will not be reprinting or offering anything new any time soon. Go to www.madcreator.com.
Change can be scary, and sometimes a little sad saying goodbye to old habits. But this is something that I, Gris Grimly, need to do.
Here's to a blessed, prosperous and successful 2010 to us all!
Be Grim!
Gris Grimly
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