Monday, June 17, 2013

Sorry Dad

It's Father's Day again, and as I scroll through my news feed I am touched by all of the heartfelt Fathers Day sentiments and aged photos of smiling dads. I am happy for my friends and yet a small thread of envy has laced itself around my heart. I wish I too could share a moment of devotion between my father and I.   I would like to share photos of my father and I arm in arm, or fishing, or hanging out at a barbecue and other bonding moments captured for eternity. The truth is I cant. But I did find a generic picture I will use instead. To be clear, my father hasn't passed away from this life - he simply passed on mine. I don't share this fact to solicit sympathy, I am merely reflecting on the past and the role I played to a father who was, at best, distant. The facts are fixed in time. They are history. However, the ebb and flow of emotions this day conjures for me aren't quite as simple. Even though I was never close to my father he is the first man to ever break my heart. If I could tell him anything right now, wherever he may be, it's that I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you couldn't see that I needed to know you and I needed you to help me know myself before anyone had the opportunity to label me. I'm sorry you do not understand the fear and concern of not knowing if the children you helped create are breathing, eating, safe and secure. I'm sorry you don't realize that a man that puts himself last does not abandon the souls of his flesh. I’m sorry that you missed out on something and someone so great. I'm sorry you didn't realize that you would have lost nothing by being in my life. Thank you dad for not being there when I needed you most. Thank you for making me become a man when I stepped into the shoes you left behind and put the broken pieces back together. Thank you for the pain of needing someone who was never there because without that pain I wouldn’t know healing, I wouldn’t know love, and I would not know God.See More

"Snacks and Snot-Rockets" or "The Apathy of Apes" or "Vile Projectiles"

After the gym this morning, I'm feeling especially good about myself. I completed another day, lost a few more pounds, and I'm thinking a reward, in the form of a snack..., is in my immediate future. I'm thinking frittata. I'm still learning how to cook and I've been excited about trying out a new recipe I found. Arugula, smoked salmon (lox), and egg-white frittata. Yes, a healthy and delicious reward indeed. I also like saying it out loud. Fri-ta-ta! It makes me feel like a real cook. But I digress.
I'm coming out of the gym, high on expectations (and endorphins) when I pass a man (let's call him "Ape") who, out of nowhere and without warning, shoots a snot-rocket onto the sidewalk. Now, for those of you who do not know what a "snot-rocket" is, it's when someone (usually a male teen) lays a finger on the side of one nostril and blows (without a tissue) snot out of the opposite nostril. It's disgusting. I've heard about them when I was a kid in school. We joked about them at sleepovers, but I've never actually witnessed the dastardly deed - until now. I gazed at Ape's vile projectile on the sidewalk and quickly turned away. Damn my natural curiosity! Usually I have a snappy comeback reserved for loathsome characters, but the moment had passed and besides, Ape left me speechless. I'm usually a very tolerant person. Live and let live right? But at the risk of sounding cliche, what in the hell is wrong with some people? Do we have to share space AND witness bodily functions in public? Even my dog tries to bury her poops when she's finished. But HER courtesy is inherent. What is our excuse? What's next - taking a squat on isle three at Safeway? What is my responsibility as a spoke in the wheel of humanity to slow down the de-evolution of man? Our pop culture has a comic book hero for every imaginable power, but none exist with the ability to instill common courtesy. Oh the humanity!
Needless to say, frittata's are off the menu. My visual skills will only force me to compare the textures of snot and egg whites. I just can't shake the image. I'm still hungry, but all I can stomach at this point is cranberry juice. I've had a few glasses so far, and much to my suprise, cranberry's are an excellent diuretic. I'm wiggling around in my chair right now trying to finish up this rant of mine, but it gives me an idea. If I can just hold off on one more trip to the restroom, I can hustle back to the gym and demonstrate to Ape a bodily function of my own.
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"Mirth and Misfortune" or "Suicide is Silly" or "Mr. Sardonicus"

Someone asked me yesterday how I came up with the name "Grimm Grinz Studio".  As I attempted disseminate my reasoning for branding myself with such a name ...I began to realize just how apropos it actually was. Ever since I can remember I've always been perplexed by my highly inappropriate reaction to adversity. I laugh. I don't understand why, I just do. Understandably, some say my reactions are inappropriate and shame me into submission, but others see it as my coping mechanism for handling stressful situations. Personally I think it's the latter . . . or at least I hope so. You see, I was raised in the Hispanic culture. It's a wonderful world filled with amazing food, loving people, and a beautiful language, but some of you may be familiar with its highly charged emotional culture. It's a colorful landscape populated with matriarchs and landmines where one must tread with caution. In my family, something as mundane as a missed phone call, or errant lizard wandering through our kitchen was cause for epic hysteria. And don't get me started on a death. The meltdowns I've witnessed are something even a writer of novellas would consider 'over the top'. The screaming, the rendering of flesh, the drama. It's potent. Somehow, thankfully, this high-octane trait has skipped yours truly. Don't get me wrong, I have feelings. I have a heart. I get choked up when Sarah McLaughlin sings for the SPCA. For the most part, however, the sad events in my life bring out my inner Jackie Gleason. In the face of calamity I seek out a punch line. Sometimes I just smirk, or sometimes I giggle (Note to self; grown men shouldn't giggle. It's odd.), or sometimes I just burst out laughing. This morning I was reading the news and stumbled onto an article about the suicide rate in relation to joblessness. Very sad right? Well, apparently not for me. What are the jobless thinking right before they take a dive off this mortal coil? "Hey God! You can't fire me, I quit!" On the plus side, death is one of the few jobs that can be done lying down. I apologize if I offend, but I just can't help myself. It's in my architecture.  Rest assured, if there is a hereafter I'm certain I will have to attone for my indiscretions in this life. My only hope is that I'll be playing to a full house with a two drink minimum.See More