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In 1973, the mothership ejected me for various crimes against my fellow creatures. Upon pulling my head out of the rich, black soil of an Iowa farm, I found myself in the midst of a film crew. One look at my four arms and the director baptized me as a Grip. I've been one ever since. From the Mississippi River to the sunny shores of California, fog-enshrouded London, to the craggy mountains of Colorado, I've driven a Fisher Eleven over the toes of the biggest stars; dropped crane heads on Wexler, poked Sayles with a C-Stand, and run Bill Bennett off of the end of the track. Let Big Dog Grip do the same for you. |
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