Finally! One of my favorite illustrators and arguably one of the biggest inspirations for doing the stuff I do, Maurice Vellekoop, has put up a website. I couldn’t be more pleased to see this. His sense of humor, quality of line, and coloring all work for me. In my late teens and still developing my style, imagine my surprise that the same artist who I’d seen in the pages of wallpaper* magazine and Rolling Stone had put out a ‘Golden Book’ primer send up of homoerotic ABC’s.

Knowing this one was rejected for the letter ‘K’ – makes me a bigger fan, if that was at all possible.

Lots of things seem to happen at my grocery store and this one hasn’t happened in a long time, since maybe when I was in my early twenties.

I’m getting my groceries for my week at work, clocking the college age (or older) hotties: workers, skaters, punks, etc. and occasionally somebody clocks me back. Hard. Really hard. Repeated glances. Again. Again. Again. Okay, I’m getting cruised.

Just like that old ska song by Symarip (changing she to he), there he was, swinging down the high streets, yeah, his hair cut short, boots set firm, I couldn’t believe my eyes, like a story out of a book. He was height, my weight, my size, he wore braces and blue jeans. Okay, no braces and blue jeans, but damn close, he had on big docs, Dickies shorts and was very SoCal skinhead.

Raised eyebrows and a smile in passing, then in the line turning around to catch my eye 3 times, leaving line with his Schlitz and turning around to say good-bye, then waiting outside for some reason to say hello to me and I just tell him ‘see ya round’. Lame. I know I’m on my ‘no sex’, year long challenge, but… but… grrr!

I get in my car and loop the parking lot, scrambling to pull out one of my cards with my number on it. Damn! No number on these? Argh! Grab a pen. Fuck! Purple and exploded – ALL OVER MY HAND! FUCK! Are you kidding me? Write. Wipe my hand. Oh no… he’s going behind the grocery store. Back around into the rear parking lot, parking… where did he go? I see him over by the dumpster, drinking his beer.

I march on over and say hello and hand him my card and he asks a question that takes me back.

“So are you a skinhead?”

I smile and tell him I used to be. Kind of a stretch now at this point, but I have a Fred Perry shirt on.

“What kind?”

There’s that nervous knot in my stomach that totally takes me back. Yep. Right back again. The sniffing out begins.

“I was a S.H.A.R.P.,” charm turned away up, smile, and he stops me dead as soon as I got the letter ‘P’ formed. Like car-wreck dead. I can still hear the screeching tires in my head. Over. And over. And over. Followed by the sound of the crumple zone and steam shooting out of the engine.

“I’m white power,” complete with Sieg Heil salute and then very aggressively defensive, “so why are handing me this card with your number on it?”

My face contorted, my eyebrows cocked, and a look of disgust. His back against the wall of the dumpster container and both of us sizing each other up – not for sex, but whether or not this is going to start to go badly. Ice in the pit of my stomach. Him looking the card over and then shooting daggers at me.

“You know what, just give me that card back.” Cooly taking it back, shaking my head and back into my car. What a waste of my time fraught with misdirection and ultimately some of the most uncomfortable bunch of bullshit I’ve been part of in some time.

This hedonist loves to play. My 5 senses are my religion and I’m a very passionate person.

For what it’s worth, I’ve made a bet with myself to remain celibate for the next year. This means nothing past 2nd base for me so I can get my priorities sorted. I don’t see it like some who might try to quit smoking, but more like a study in human nature as I don’t see myself as being addicted to the act, instead more like a science experiment complete with taking notes on what makes me a stronger person and what really nearly makes me break. I’m on week 7 of my sexy-strike of self-discovery. It will be blogged about.

I’ve had some interesting reactions to declining sex so far which range from “Yeah, right.” to “What? That’s bizarre and you’ve lost your damned mind.” to “If you change your mind, you have my phone number.” Even more curious are those that see this as a challenge to their own libidinous natures, ie. How can I get you to (show me your) crack? So far, I’ve not had to push anyone away physically, as we all know I tend to go a bit melty when certain somebodies makes me look at them right in the eyes and get all forcefully grabby and breathy, so if I wiggle away, look away or don’t make eye contact with you, don’t take it personally… or, perhaps, do? Thankfully, most of the enticing offers/challenges have come from the online community and have been much farther away than a 10 minute car ride. Some of you are quickly making it on a list of people I am not to be left alone with should two or more of you collude and gang up on me deciding to play “Let’s Tempt the Lusty Priest of Perv”. You will be ex-communicated if I should fall from grace and you will be labelled forevermore – Lucifer’s Slippery Bell-End. I’ve already nearly chewed the edge of my desk off twice like a Tex Avery cartoon, so stop sending me pictures of your beautifully sculpted pecker, pucker, or bedroom eyes. I don’t even want to see your feet. You are making this very, very, gulp, hard.

Don’t think I can do it? Well, I’ve already cut out television from my routine. The prohibitive AT&T U-Verse bill certainly nudged me out of my lame-brained habit of plopping down on the couch and watching shows I absolutely detest. I’m actually amazed at how much television I don’t watch now, outside of a NOVA special or something on PBS.

The main reason I want to push myself in this manner is to scientifically see if this has a bearing on my level of creativity. In this past year, and it’s not a lie or a boast, I’ve had a LOT of sex (most of it terrible!) and I’ve created absolutely ZERO new artwork or finished any pieces I’ve started. Horrifying. And if we follow out this mathematical sexual equation: the greater the amount of sex, the lesser amount of creativity and time devoted to being arty. And if the correlation is correct, then I can also do it with the news, politics, and the devil a lot of us know – Facebook. Which, if we extrapolate this puppy out, more time for cooking, yard work, etc. and incidentally, more money in my pocket.

Things that are excluded are masturbation by myself, kissing (oh! the gateway drug! …but I will allow it. Just don’t be upset if I throw you to the floor yelling, “Get out! Get out! Foul demon, get out!”), sexy chit-chat and sex toys.

Things that are included: Anything past 2nd base with another person in the room, touching under the clothing, engaging in any kinky horseplay (bondage, wearing rubber, getting into jlube fights, et. al.) with one or more people, and hanging out with another person with the purpose of doing the nasty. This means, do not grab my wang or thrust your hand down the back of my jeans to “poke the kitty”.

This means no ComiCon for me as it’s sensory overload. I can just see that if somebody clever enough, seductively loquacious enough, with the devil in their eyes decided to speak a few well-placed, sweet somethings in my ear or along the nape of my neck, I’d be a goner on my knees in your hotel room praising all that is holy before me or perhaps in less nicer, less clean facilities. And I don’t need any of you thinking it’s funny and ganging up on me there, chasing me through the convention center in some sort of psycho-sexual Night of the Living Dead yelling, “We’re coming to get you, Barbara!” because some of you geeks are way too hot and that’s playing with fire. I’ll stay home with my green tea and my ice cream, thank you very much. I’m deadly serious.

All that said, there are some key things I am setting as goals that I must accomplish in this long, dry year. The obvious one is doing artwork again. The second one is joining a gym and tearing up this slight frame to be reborn as something better, stronger, and something worth whistling at. I don’t want to ring in year 37 with a spare tire any more than I want to approach 40 (good grief!) farther down the hill than I anticipated. “The body is a temple”, or so they say. Third, I believe I have the mental fortitude and doing is proving.

See you around Memorial Day.

Are you in or visiting Seattle? Have you worn out your leather or totally out of lube? Well, look no further! Doghouse Leathers, Seattle’s purveyors of all things pervy, is now stocked with handmade, blank greeting cards made by yours truly! Be sure to check out their great space, pick up a big toy or three, chat up the friendly staff and be sure to get a grip on some arty cards. Tell them I sent you and ask for them by name!

This morning I was incensed by the revelations that the rap artist, M.I.A., wasn’t exactly who she puffed herself up to be which also confirmed my sneaking suspicions that the self-proclaimed voice to the young Tamil struggle in Sri Lanka was nothing more than a face (albeit a beautiful one) to an utterly disgusting pop-Frankenstein made up of lethargic, middle-class producers and engineers performing their ill-fitting duties as the cogs in a dying machine called the music industry. Frankly, I think Lynn Hirschberg at the New York Times let Maya Arulpragasam off way too easy, damning her with 9 pages of faint praise and contradiction.

Sure, the song ‘Paper Planes’ captured imaginations rocketing her to fame with it’s sampling of The Clash as a backdrop for her voice over rap – but it only stands to testimony that some things are classics and can stand on their own. And as she borrows here from the great Joe Strummer and company, Maya wraps herself in conflict and strife of the Tamil Tigers, falsely claiming their struggle as her own, and embossed that into the minds of many with that facile, para-military, ginger holocaust styled video in which we were assaulted with on the internet for her song, Born Free.

My first inkling that M.I.A. wasn’t all she said she was came when I was watching Real Time with Bill Maher and he interviewed her asking her about the plight of her native land, to which she seemed to know less to nothing about the Sri Lankan civil war than I did.

Chris Matyszczyk, at Cnet.com, summed up my sentiments this morning, reinforcing my dislike of M.I.A. and Twitter simultaneously. Simply put, Maya Arulpragasam, is a flaming jackass! I pity anyone who bought into her shtick and purchased any of her music. Her persona is like an onion, the more you unravel the layers, the more you are brought to tears, only to then be used to make Revolution Canapé.

Now, why does this even matter to me?

A writing teacher in college once told me, “Don’t write or produce work from the point of view that you know nothing about. It will be your own undoing.” These are words to live by, as an artist. Another one might be, “Don’t shit where you eat.”

I’m the product of my working class family and my environment. Historically, I’m also the first person in the last 200 years (perhaps more) of my family to attend a college and complete my studies. I almost dropped out of college after my second year because I ran out of money, and only when I begged the school to find some need based scholarship funds was I allowed to continue my studies to get my Bachelor in Fine Arts degree of which I have remaining $12,000 in loans I pay at regular monthly intervals. I bust my ass in a graphic design/printing job that sees me as little more than a skilled hand to press buttons, just so my right-wingnut boss can live just off a golf course and make ludicrous payments on a lease for his Porsche to keep up appearances at the country club or on his Match.com dates. I come home and I’m so fucking tired, that what little time I have for myself on weekends is spent doing battle with weeds in my garden or going out looking for somebody to fist my brains out so I can forget it all for a night when I should be making artwork for appreciative clients – not the ones who run magazines who collect thousands of dollars from beer or porn company advertisements or run gay shops in trendy parts of town who can’t be bothered to dole out paltry sums of money to artists trying to make it in this world.

Ask me again why I’m upset and I will keep pointing at charlatans like M.I.A. and the people who like to play the fool.

From now until June 1st – Any prints or cards bought of my image, “Cockabilly“, I will give 50% of my take to help those in need in the Nashville flooding through the Red Cross. Temporary shelters are at capacity, missing people are unaccounted for, many homes are under water, there is a water conservation emergency, much of Nashville’s economic base is threatened by the epic flood damage.

Just drop me an email detailing how many cards or 13″x19″ prints you want and we’ll set up the PayPal connection to get you your new piece of art for a good cause.

No – not the rash and fever caused by the infectious streptococci bacterium but the warm fuzzies you might get when you’ve got a case of the lust for the rust. Yes, I’m talking about red heads, copper tops, gingers.

There’s something that makes me go goo-goo for all that pasty white skin spotted with tons of freckles and a shock of bristling copper hair, cut short so it resembles the ends of electrical conduit, sparkling in the sun’s damaging rays. Gibbering doesn’t even begin to describe the state I work myself into when I glimpse a ruby red beauty. Obsessed, yes, much like a cryptozoologist who finally sees a Sasquatch with his own two eyes and if said rust-bucket has big feet… well, nevermind.

What I don’t understand is the UK disdain campaign to pick on the ginger-haired. These people, especially the men in my case, should be revered and not treated with cruelty. To catch a glimpse of one of these men is something to be savored, like that last bit of dark chocolate sucked from your thumb and index finger or that last glob of filling on your plate of home-made blueberry pie.

I suppose burning bush isn’t for everyone. This is fine because I’m greedy like that. Just on my way home this week, I saw this filthy, city worker in nothing but an orange safety vest and incredibly stained blue jeans and work boots picking up orange cones. When the wind would catch the vest and fling it open, I’d catch a full on view of his red goodie trail and pelt of chest hair! The crossing traffic was dense and I caught another one – this one in a beat up old blue truck – his head shorn, goldfish tattoos on his upper arm and a weeks worth of facial hair that had me daydreaming about him tickling my taint. I’d never been more happy to be at a stop light. Besides, I’d hate to wreck my car because I was visually overwhelmed.

Maybe it’s the rarity of these milky white masturbatory fantasies or maybe because I have an eye for things that stand out or aren’t typically seen as classically beautiful. I don’t know the ‘why’ so much as I’m just glad they are and they make spring all that much better.

It was Edgar A. Poe’s anniversary of his death and instead of absinthe and bemoaning life’s fragile state, some friends and I gathered to watch ‘The Black Cat’ and eat snacks, followed by a night out at the goth club. I go every now and then to these event nights as the music doesn’t suck and it brings the freaks out.

It’s always fun to watch the sexually ambiguous dance about, losing themselves in whatever beat they are attempting to capture. It’s a dress up kind of deal, where normal people get charged more money for admission. It’s a good mix of ropey-haired, latex wearing girls that look like evil dolls, punks, nerdy types with a dark side and a penchant for trenchcoats, older “lifer” goths, a tranny or two, and a smattering of military boys out on leave in dark clothing.

Smiths, Siouxie Sioux, and Thrill Kill Kult sends the masses into a taffy-pulling vortex in the smoke machines and strobe lights. Sweat pours down, glistening in bursts of light, collecting in cleavage and collarbones alike. Beautiful arms, tattooed, clad in black bondage gear thrust high above the heads of the crowd as a navy boy stomps about giving curious glances at other boys. People throw shapes, the music pulses on into the night, and I can practically smell how youthful everyone is.

For a moment, it carries me too, I feel like I’m feasting on their youth and I feel young again. It’s moments like these that make you wish you could freeze time, capture it, like an insect in amber. To be a vampire at that moment in time, strong-arming the pychobilly boy up against the wall where the strobe doesn’t quite go, sinking my teeth into his perfect brown neck – I would have sold my soul for it.

This is what you came here for? This dance to celebrate death. Not Edgar Allan Poe’s but your very own. The fantasy lingers only so long until I see where the sweat collects in his dark grey military fatigues and then I just wish I was his underwear.

And there’s that realization that time moves on, moves forward and doesn’t wait for me. My mouth is dry. I’m 36.

I go home for a cup of green tea and bed. It will be raining heavily this next week and it will be spent in doors, writing terrible verse to a buck-tooth girl in Luxembourg or piecing together pieces of art for very patient men.

Let’s get down to business. Man, I really hate all that forced bullshit these holidays bring. If I had to endure another song about yule logs, I think I’d hit somebody with one. Everyone is busy running around, all hopped up on this false idea of “Christmas cheer” when we all know it’s a case of last minute shopping and bad driving. It’s dangerous out there. As I see it, there are about 16 more days before everyone goes back to normal as that’s when the gaudy lights and inflatables come off people’s homes and people have returned all those unwanted gifts from Aunt Selma.

I’m also glad people will stop saying “Merry Christmas” to me instead of a simple good-bye. I’m not Christian. Don’t assume. It got to the point where I’d be at CostCo getting things and instead of saying “Thank you,” or the ever popular “Have a nice day,” I am sent away with “Merry Christmas”.

“Happy Hannukah!” I’d smile and say back to the most puzzled of faces or delight in watching them vacillate in the awkward dance of telling me they weren’t Jewish or assuring me that my sudden and apparently assumed Jewishness was ok too.

War on Christmas? You got it! After all, you started it with the constant sensory assault through sleigh bell music, that Santa hat, and that annual trampling of an elderly person at your local big-box superstore. Where’s the kindness? Where’s the sanity? And where are my damn gifts?

And isn’t it what this is really is all about? Mass consumerism and capitalism dressed up in red and green and twinkling lights? Yes, Virginia, there is an ATM at this location. In buying a gift for those loved ones, people are caught up in this cloud of anxiety and expectation of what this time of year is perceived to bring. If you liked these same people the other 364 days of the year, couldn’t you have bought them a gift at any time?

So now, please put away that wreath of pinecones, those ever-so hilarious novelty antlers for your VW sports wagon, and that precious cat sweater with “MEOW-y Xmas!” on either sides so it can live another day to embarrass us all (including the cat). I’ve had enough – enough of all the appropriated mish-mash of pagan, Christian, and made up consumer come-ons to last me a lifetime. This includes that crazy story about that one guy who rose from the dead and did all these purported magic things.

Um, yeah, like whatever.

Stupid doctors, crappy healthcare.
Dressed in head-to-toe gowns
In the air
There’s a forced feeling
of Christmas.

People sick
People passing
Seeing people out of work
and on every street corner you’ll hear

We’re in hell, we’re in hell
It’s Christmas time in the city
Ding-a-ling, Republicans
Soon it will be Christmas day.

Throngs of homeless
Under stop lights
In soup kitchens it’s obscene
As Walmart shoppers rush
home with their treasures.

It’s a cash crunch
Kids without lunch
Glen Beck makes a scene
And above all this bustle
You’ll hear

We’re in hell, we’re in hell
It’s Christmas time in the city
Ding-a-ling, Republicans
Soon it will be Christmas day.