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“To My Hero, John K.!”
A true geek wearing a government-issue NSA polo, I enter the
half-filled theater carrying a bag of heads.
He’s sitting right there, alone, by the entrance, as the last
few fans scamper in (“Why shouldn’t I
approach him?”). Leaning on the back of the seat to his left, I start, as
though continuing a conversation, with, “John, I’ve got those Gandy Goose and
Sourpuss copper head molds.”
Turning around, John Kricfalusi appears pleased enough to meet
a fan, but momentarily confused and maybe concerned, trying to figure out what
my phrasing of words meant to him at that moment. “Gandy Goose and Sourpuss”
makes sense to John K., but “copper head molds” isn’t a phrase commonly
overheard in a theater setting. I carefully unwrap the circa 1958 Gandy Goose
head mold from its bubbled enclosure, and hand it to John K. A therapist may suggest this entire tale is one of seeking approval from a parental figure.
“Wow! This is wonderful. Are you selling these, or...?” he
asks.
I can’t tell if he’s compelled and wants to buy them, annoyed
that someone might be trying to sell him crap right before this retrospective
of his work or something else altogether. No matter, my answer is the same:
“No. If you want them, they’re yours.”
“But why would you ever give these up?” he asks, now sounding
like a fanboy.
“Because Gandy Goose and Sourpuss were an inspiration for you,
and you created Ren and Stimpy,” I explain bluntly. Ren and Stimpy certainly helped guide my developing sense of humor.
Gandy Goose and Sourpuss were stars of the Terry Toons cartoon
emirate (along with Mighty Mouse, Heckle and Jeckle, etc.), appearing in dozens
of original shorts and comics throughout the 1930-1950s. Thanks to television
replays, consumer-level 8mm film sales and new comic books, these characters
lived well into the 1970s and helped inspire John K.’s most famous creations,
Ren and Stimpy. In 2007, he wrote: “Gandy Goose is a lovable homosexual.
Sourpuss was a mean curmudgeon. Gandy and Sourpuss has a funny relationship.
They slept together and would invade each other’s dreams. Sourpuss was the
asshole character and Gandy loves him nonetheless. Their relationship inspired
Ren and Stimpy.”
Yet, there’s more personal and more recent nostalgia for John
K., too. Cartoonist Ralph Bakshi (infamously, if not best, known for Fritz the Cat--the first X-rated
animated film) got his start at Terry Toons in the late 1950s. In 1987, Bakshi
reached out to John K. to resurrect the creator-driven art of animation that
lay dormant for decades during which true cartoonists were marginalized and
pushed out of the industry and cartoons were corporatized pablum, lacking all
sense of entertainment, existing only as a Saturday-morning platform to sell
commercial time. The seemingly innocuous maneuver of re-introducing Terry Toons
characters through Mighty Mouse: The New
Adventures--which also found Gandy Goose and Sourpuss literally thawed from
a cryogenic limbo--saved the world of animation (at least, the world worth
existing) and delivered inspiration and new dimensions of creativity to a new
generation. Yes, John K. has a special place in his heart for this daft bird and angry cat.
“See me afterwards, I’ll give you a signed Jimmy the Idiot Boy
Doll,” he says.
The discussion was straightforward, appreciative and just nice.
Upon first learning that John K. was coming to the Dallas
International Film Festival to accept the Texas Avery Animation Award, I was
excited (“Happy happy, joy joy!” repeat) but my mind quickly fell upon an
earlier quest: I’d previously resolved to give these heads to John K.--someone
who will appreciate them and, I envision, showcase them in his personal museum
of all things demented and beautiful. In the scope of the universe, these heads
belong to him.
About the Copper Heads
Years ago, I came across an antique dealer from Georgia who,
with her business partner, bought the remains of the old Rushton Company toy
factory, which ran from 1917 to 1983. Rushton made a lot of dolls, including
those for Terry Toons’ popular puppets in the 1950s and 1960s. The latter was
done by creating copper molds of characters’ heads, injecting rubber into the
molds and--as soon as the material was solid-yet-flexible enough--vacuuming the
inverted rubber heads out of the molds. The rubber heads were then turned
right-side out and sewn onto fabric to make simple hand puppets. The antique
dealer knew little about the head molds except the factory from which they
originated. Her first sale of one of these was my purchase of a Gandy Goose
mold. I simply thought it a cool item...then I investigated Gandy Goose and
Terry Toons and found the relationship to John K., via his animation and art
blog, and knew I was on to something special.
The dealer and I talked numerous times on the phone, exchanged
countless emails, and she sent me photos of some of the other molds she had
that were stamped “TERRY TOONS” in reverse on the inner neck. Based on these
images, she had at least two Sourpuss molds--each showing distinct wear due to
age. I rightfully concluded that it was ridiculous to have Gandy Goose and not
Sourpuss--they’re a team, just like Ren and Stimpy. I needed that damn cat.
Examining more pictures I started to see nearly the entire
Terry Toons character stable (sans Mighty Mouse) in copper head mold form. I
was compelled to “collect ‘em all.” These beautiful works of art were just
baking in a central Georgia warehouse. I needed to save them. I needed to
acquire not only Sourpuss, but Heckle and Jeckle, Kiko the Kangaroo, the Terry
Bears, Little Roquefort, Hashimoto...all of them. I had to assemble a Noah’s
ark of these old Terry Toons head molds. They represent not only
too-often-forgotten third-rate cartoon characters, but an extinct discipline in
the art of creating toys.
The mission set forth in my geek/collector mind was to amass as
many distinct Terry Toons character molds as possible (I thought it an
investment, too, but one that would take a lifetime to appreciate). I agreed to
buy at least a dozen of the heads from the antique dealer (the actual number
would depend on what else she uncovered) and we established a per-head price.
She dug through piles of molds at the warehouse--an activity limited to the
morning hours due to the sweltering summer heat--and continued to sporadically
send new photos. Suddenly, all calls and messages to the possessor of these
treasures ceased. Months passed. I still had just a lone Gandy Goose.
Out of the blue, late one night, she called. She’d been anxious
for a while about getting in touch because so much time had lapsed since she
last responded to my emails--she felt bad and she thought I’d be angry.
We talked for more than an hour, the heads only mentioned
briefly when she brought them up to assure me that the ones I’d already wanted
were set aside for me--she just needed help packaging them. The reality: She
was fighting cancer and left weak by the treatment. Her husband, in his 80s,
was unable to help. I assured her that I was not angry, that these were just
toys, whereas she was fighting for her life, and she shouldn’t waste energy
thinking about them or worrying about anyone’s perception of her related to
them.
She was originally from the civilized parts of Florida (where I
also grew up) and found semi-rural Georgia, where she’d relatively recently
moved, to be an odd change of pace. Yet, when the people in her town learned
about her illness, the strangers coming to her door were no longer trying to
preach the gospel, they were bringing food and offering to help her out around
the house. She had a newfound respect for rural southerners and honestly
thought that she’d be able to proceed with selling and shipping out my hoard of
head molds within a couple of weeks.
After a couple of months without hearing from her, I called and
got a recorded “out of service” message. I never heard from her again and her
sales presence online went from minimal to nonexistent.
Then a Sourpuss copper head mold appeared online for sale, but
not by her. This mold was being sold by the son of her business partner. I
messaged him to enquired about her health, “not good,” he said somberly to
which I expressed my genuine concern. In addition, this man’s father (the
partner of the antique dealer with which I’d now lost contact) had suffered a
farming injury and it became his task to sell their antique
inventory--including the head molds. This son-of-an-antique-dealer knew nothing
about the deal I’d arranged with his father’s partner for a bulk purchase, and
rebutted the topic when raised (“My father owns them, she can’t make those
deals”). But I bought that Sourpuss head mold.
If nothing else came of this years-long adventure, I’d managed
to get the team of Gandy Goose and Sourpuss together where their cultural value
could best be appreciated. I even offered to give the current dealer information
I’d learned in my research about the characters he was selling so that the most
appropriate buyers (and likely more
buyers) would be attracted to the sales--he never responded and his sales remained slow compared to what they should have been.
After several months of marveling at the awesomeness of the
Gandy Goose and Sourpuss head molds on my mantel, and giving them some face
time on a shelf at work, I rationalized that there were people more suitable
than I to be the holders of such historic animation-toy relics. People for whom
these would bring back memories of childhood, gloriously stupid high college
nights or perhaps even some of their greatest accomplishments.
It was with all of this in mind that I wrote to John K. during
his “Cans Without Labels” Kickstarter campaign (August 2012), explaining that I
had copper head molds of Gandy Goose and Sourpuss from the late 1950s and asked
if he’d like them--perhaps in exchange for one of the campaign’s perks. He (or
someone else involved with the campaign) was interested but said there was no
wiggle room in the campaign for such a barter. And before I could ask for a
mailing address so as to send John K. the molds, the campaign ended
(successfully, at least) and my route of communication with the famed animator
shut down.
Down in the Lobby
Twenty months later, I’m eager, but cool and mostly relaxed, to meet John K. But the coolness of cucumbers has nothing on geek freak.
After the retrospective and Q&A, I fumble while talking to
him, removing the Sourpuss head mold from its bubble wrap. (“Show him this one
first, you already showed him Gandy Goose in the theater before the film. Yeah,
that’s a strategy! You’re awesome at thinking!”) Once handed Sourpuss, he
begins examining the 50-plus-year-old, metal sculpture of a character that
meant something to him. This is an experience with the characters that he’s
never had. Next, I unwrap and set Gandy Goose down on the table in front of
him. He’s taken aback, I suspect because the appearance of these relics came
relatively out of nowhere, and they are indeed something special to someone
that appreciates the characters, the history and the art. He holds them
alongside his Texas Avery Award statue with a large smile, ogles them some more
and then sets them down, upon which I re-wrap and bag them for him for safe
travel.
At the same time, I explain the basics about how the molds were
used to make the actual heads, adding that I also have a Heckle/Jeckle head
mold from the same era that had the original rubber still inside of it and how
I was able to remove the rubber head from the mold and now have a
brand-new-yet-50-year-old rubber puppet head of the infamous magpies as well as
the exact mold from which it was made.
Perhaps oddly, I say that he can even make his own Gandy Goose
and Sourpuss rubber heads from the molds if he wanted to play with that art, to
which he responds, “I wouldn’t know how.” I instinctively take his brevity as
some manner of disappointment...and now I’m nervous and self-doubt and
irrational stupidity floods my consciousness. (“Please wife, just take my
picture with him. He’s sitting down and I’m standing up, but bending over and
looking stupid. This is almost over, he’s signing the top of the Jimmy the
Idiot Boy Clubhouse Doll box. I just wanted to give him the fucking molds and
say, ‘Hello, mad respect,’ and now I can’t even think!”)
Photos taken, hands shaken, John K. has some new treasures and
I have an unforgettable experience plus a two-foot-tall doll of a mentally
handicapped cartoon character too politically incorrect to ever star in a
televised show (though he was in the first-ever, online-only cartoon series The Goddamn George Liquor Program, so
this tale stretches from the early time of copper molds for rubber toy
production to the dawn of Internet video). The inscription on the box: “To my
hero, Michael!”
As I depart, pausing to speak with a Scottish man waiting in
line to have his consultation with the human embodiment of Ren Höek, I start to
shake my shock (though it lasts for another 20 minutes). A reality away from
the encounter, I look at the photos my wife took and realize that John K. was
not disappointed with the head molds or annoyed with my existence--he was
geeking out in his own way. As he rotated Sourpuss, noting the odd metallic
growths that decades imbued on the feline’s copper ears, there’s an intent look
on his face, not a suggestion of, “What’s this shit?” His smile present in the
“4 Heads” photo (Gandy Goose, Texas Avery Award, Sourpuss and John K.) is
honest. Following that with his “hero” inscription” makes it all seem genuine,
and that’s a nice experiential emotion to have.
John K. is a geek and an inspiration to
thousands, if not millions, and has influenced the world well beyond the reach
of his ridiculous, Hitler-slaying Terry Toons friends (see “The Last Roundup,”
1943).
Afterword
I have not and will not be creating a Terry Toons copper head
mold museum. I swear. But I did purchase another Gandy Goose mold. Externally,
it’s not as fine as the one I bequeathed to John K., but it has an original
rubber head still inside it...