The New York Boys of Leather are having a Boy Auction at the Stonewall Inn (Yes! That Stonewall…) on April 5th. It’s a benefit for SAGE so if you are in the New York area – attend – you may get your hands on the piece below (sans advertising text – that was for the posters and palm cards) at the auction!

Click To View Full Sized!

I’m always happy to get requests from guys who want to tattoo my work on their bodies. As long as you send me pictures, I’m totally cool with it. I know of 3 or 4 people now who have gone under the needle to permanently brand themselves with my work and occasionally, I get commissions to do work expressly for tattooing on flesh.

The Other White Meat, now over Brian’s heart here now tells everyone what a big pig he is! Also, he bought a ton of my cards at the NYC Leatherman and now owns a limited edition piece of the image he got permanently marked into his flesh.

The second image here was a rather custom job, without the sex, but still just as cool. 7 swords are a symbol of this handsome guy’s Serbian heritage he proudly displays on his back.

If you’ve got any hidden (or right out there in the open) tattoos of my work – drop me a line!

You’re kid is a menace and you are a rotten neighbor.

Your child is definitely a case for making sure a kid isn’t home schooled. This kid runs around all year round with no apparent supervision and barefoot, hits parked cars with CDs and footballs, yelling epithets at neighbors from around the corner of houses, barking like a rabid dog from the darkness of his window when people walk by, leaving ‘stink bombs’ on the front doorstep and the tire of the ice cream truck (which doesn’t come around anymore!), scaring neighborhood pets, screaming like a demon all hours of the day with his gang of neighborhood brats that all need a good swat, flea dip, and a hair cut. When these aggravations are brought to the attention of his inattentive and feckless father, he just rolls his eyes, sighs, and talks to him in a quiet voice conveying nothing to the devil child – who then bald face lies that “It wasn’t me” or “No! I didn’t!”. Holidays roll around and the feral child is lavished with gifts to mollify him. Nice going! That’ll teach him. Try reform school.

To make matters worse, the brat’s father is part of the ‘neighborhood watch’. That’s irony for you seeing how I stopped a guy from stealing a motorcycle while you played cards with the next door neighbors – in the front room!

And now you call my fucking landlady today because I feed cats and get them into loving homes and off the street?!? What kind of mealy-mouthed motherfucker do you have to be? That passive aggressive bullshit doesn’t wash with me, since I’m upfront and in your face almost every weekend telling you to put a damn leash on your devil spawn. Grow a set and confront me like a man. If you didn’t like me feeding those two cats on that side of the street, you could have come over and told me and I’d be happy to oblige, but this isn’t about the cats… it’s about you being impotent to control your kid. Now I’ve got to worry about my landlady calling me?

It’s gotten so bad, that when I was in Seattle, your kid was on his bike pulling a wagon with another kid in it careening into parked cars! Again, who’s going to pay for the damages? When my roommate confronted your kid to stop, he ran and told you he “threatened to kill” him! Your kid is a liar.

You’ve crossed the line now, pal. The next time your kid so much as comes out into the street to do anything untoward people’s property – you’ll be dealing with the police. I’ll relish playing back the video for the officer that I’ve set up facing the front yard and street as your kid cries that “it wasn’t him” for the last time. It’s my only recourse as you refuse to do nothing when I tell you about these problems. I don’t even get an “I’m sorry” from you! And now you call my landlady?!?

I don’t fuck around. Your kid is going to juvie and that’s just the start. I just wonder what city services I can call to do pop inspections of your property with all the rental units you collect money on.

I will destroy you.

My weekend seemed to get off to a good start and having Monday off because some zombie guy died 2000 years ago and my day-job boss is feeling giving. I’m sending out 4 pieces of art on Tuesday and maybe a few extra packages for some friends. Those are the high points and it pretty much goes downhill from here.

I went out on Friday looking to socialize. Did so and came back to not find the friendly feral cat who sleeps on my front porch, which is strange. She’s always out here to greet me and follow me inside for love and food. It’s been over 48 hours now and it’s as if she’s totally disappeared without a trace. Nobody in the neighborhood has seen her or heard anything. She was there when I left. For little over a year now, she’s made my back yard a sanctuary to get away from the street and she waits at the door for food and petting almost like clockwork, 4 times a day. She made the first steps to become friendly with me and just this week she was cuddling with me. I now have little hope left for Patience (the cat) and this makes me incredibly sad. I’m fearing the worst.

To add insult to injury, as I sometimes do, I log into MySpace and add truncated bits of this blog over there to keep people aware of goings on and things I’m proud of with a direct link to what it pertains to in regards to my illustration work and events I attend. I originally joined up to keep in touch with college friends, but it’s morphed into a place to keep in touch with nearly anyone I’ve ever met, slept with, known through events, worked with, gone to school with, collaborated with, or just plain enjoy their company. A friend on there informs me that my blog link is “weird” that links to my post below so I investigate. Here’s what came up:

Now, I’m no spammer, phisher, or “head louse” but either somebody on MySpace is a prude and doesn’t like to read about events that are rather G-Rated or somebody in management at MySpace has a small penis tiny reptilian brain power abuse problem and is making up for his short comings by blocking random users from linking to stuff that may or may not be objectionable without reading any of the content. As you can tell there is nothing wrong with the post below and I don’t even think I used an expletive. They decided that I was to be censored over a rather tame posting where some of my other postings were decidedly left alone and much more, um, not for the faint of heart. I immediately filed a complaint with their help desk.

Surprisingly, I got a nice note from somebody who took time to read the posting and personally offer his dismay and explained to me the general workings of his office atmosphere and corporate bullshit since being bought by right-wing douche-bag, Rupert Murdock. I asked him to escalate the problem to a supervisor (side note: this tactic can be applied to everything you disagree with in life from your percentage on your credit cards to the lack-luster food at your favorite restaurant. 9 times out of 10, it works to get favorable results unless the person you are talking to is less intelligent than a potted fern. You just have to be good at arguing.) but he couldn’t promise me anything as these things usually go on unanswered and fall on deaf ears because everyone is too busy pulling knives out of their backs or feasting on some unfortunate person’s brain like a ravenous jackal. I think if I worked there I’d eat barbed wire to dull the pain.

In any case, I’m leaving MySpace posthaste by Friday the 28th. I’ve been on there for a good solid 4 year stint and informed my peeps of my happy move over to Facebook and to hand over their contact information for any further love and affection. Rupert and his gang of 4th level magic-users can suck hairy goat balls.

This afternoon, I channeled my negative energy onto the overgrown plant life, dirt and rocks. I cut, hacked, weed-whackered, buried, moved, overturned, pruned, killed, and maimed anything I was sick of looking at – much like I’d like to do to most Baracknids and the “reporters” at the Fluffington Post.

I arrived fashionably late to the show that had only been underway for an hour and a half. A line of about 12 people formed to pick up their tickets and I was able to march right up to the VIP counter for mine. Little “rockstar” moments like this still tickle me rotten.

Donning my badge and dropping off my jacket and hoodie, I turned to face the crowd and the walls and the lights and the performances. I felt like I was at an energetic political rally – except with kinky people unafraid of their sexuality. I always love the energy of the people at these shows and I always have a great time. Everyone is very accomodating, kind, and all very eager to take in the sights and sounds of the night and that’s just part of what makes the Seattle Erotic Art Festival so great!

At the Seattle Center Exhibition Hall, where the event was held this year, the expansive area was easily filled with 1500 people at any given time. The performances took place on a center stage, with belly dancing, burlesque, erotic tango, trapeze dancing, and several bands played while other areas hosted erotic drawing classes, took Polaroid photos of those attending who wanted to preserve the moment, and reenacted other erotic scenes up on stages. To the right, walls were set up featuring the selected artists for this one night event and behind that was the Erotic Art Store, where artists could sell some of their smaller items.

The crowd was teaming with people I knew from previous years, new faces I wanted to know, and the throngs of art purchasers and supporters who were there just to look. I did a slight double-take when I saw my large piece on the front wall! Wow. Talk about primo placement! I couldn’t have been happier.

I took a tour of what was being shown this time around, seeing lots of people’s work I’ve come to recognize like Krysztof Nemeth’s kinky, cheeky and wonderful pin-up girls, Hypnox’s beautifully lit photographs, Jim Duvall’s BDSM photography (and photographer of your’s truly above!), Marie Gagnon’s self-pleasuring painting, Midori’s documentary/peeping photography of sub/dom play, A.V. Phibes wonderful illustration work of pin-up boys, and a new discovery – Kiriko Moth’s gorgeous and sensual illustrations that I looked at over the course of the night many, many times.

And as it goes with every show I’ve been to so far, I had a few very cool moments with people who appreciate my work and what I crank out. I can’t begin to thank those of you who stopped me and bent my ear a bit about what you like, where you discovered your first piece, and making me so excited to be alive! To the guy who lives 4 blocks from the Seattle Center Exhibition Hall who bought a slew of my greeting cards at RockHard in SF, the guy who traveled down from Canada to tower over me and tell me about his tube socks and talk to me about my inspiration, the red-headed punk guy who just kept giving me curious looks all night, and all the people who work the SEAF shows every year to pull it all together to make it work – Thank you. Without your belief in what we do and your generous support, I’d be nothing.

Getting sauced in Seattle is a very easy thing to do. It seems there is a bar on nearly every corner with some sort of drink special going on. Roaming about during the night can easily be egged on by friends, especially when you’ve all shared a pitcher of beer (beers?) and you’ve stuffed your face earlier with yummy sushi segwaying into major happy territory.

On my Friday night, we started out at the Eagle where we met a very sweet deaf guy with nice tattoos. It seemed to be “Bear Night” as everyone seemed to be hirsuit or sporting a beard and we sort of stuck out like sore thumbs and didn’t care. We hung out near the bathroom where a man at the base of the stairs kept stroking his cock through his jeans. I noticed the pitcher J.P. got to share with Aka and myself wasn’t like a mini pitcher, but something two or three times as large, but this could be my clouded recollection.

When we grew bored with this night spot, we wandered up the road to The Cuff to check it out and drink some more, but were very sad to find that we could not drink any more after 2 P.M.! The bartenders informed us at 1:45 that we could only have shots *at the bar* due to some draconian silliness on the books about bars, drinking, and whatnot. We were all rather skeptical of this, but other bartenders confirmed this as well. So we proceeded to down shots. Great idea!

We stayed up once we got home and decided it would be fun to spin records. I don’t think any of us have a future in DJing so the world can rest easy. Before we knew it, it was 5:30 am, we were even more inebriated and danced out.

The morning made for cotton-mouth and a dull throbbing headache.

Fast-forward to Saturday night, after the Seattle Erotic Art Gala, we wound up in a bar again. This time, we invaded Re-Bar where the infamous Bacon Strip night was in full swing. The 1st Saturday of every month is reserved for Bacon Strip – drag, performances, and comedy all wrapped up with a theme and hosted by the lovely and scooterific Sylvia O’Stayformore.

Drink, drank, drunk and Absinthe-infused chocolate (a friend had some) and strips of bacon (totally sanctioned). 70′s porn performances. Striping. Drag numbers. Drunken dancing. Clothing removed. Peeing and other shenanigans in the back alley.

A memorable night if I could remember how we got from place to place! Somehow, me and my two constant companions and fellow trouble-makers ended up on Sylvia’s front doorstep, drunk dialing her until she let us in and finally drove us home.

Back, reinvigorated, and just like I predicted.

Despite the gray sky above Seattle, there is something to be said for the heroin inducing, perpetual melancholy that produces some of the most vibrant hues on the ground ever imaginable. I got into Washington late on Thursday to be picked up at the airport by my lovely, and very dependable friend, J.P. and his (and now my) pal, Aka. Big, solid hugs and some joking made me feel so at home. I’d known Aka from some brief email exchanges and was glad to get to know him in person.

We had some home brewed beer and sat around chatting until 1 am and I went off to bed. We were to rise and shine early in the morning for a trip out to the Olympic Rainforest after breakfast – rain or shine. Stupidly, I left my big boots at home and made due with my sneakers and plenty of layers.

In the morning, I woke with some prodding and the smell of breakfast in the kitchen. Seaweed and tofu scramble (my host is a vegetarian – or “vegequarian” as he eats fish) and it was filling. I also managed to poach some of the tofu-tomato-basil salad when nobody was looking. We piled into the car, chatting and laughing and 3/4 of the way there, it started to rain at a good clip.

I followed the leader and local boy into the woods. He probably could detect that this city boy wasn’t feeling it, at least not yet. I have a bad habit of putting my displeasure – or any emotion – right out there on my face for the world to see. No words needed. I pushed past my skeptic voice in my head and put on a braver face and into the open trails with my companions, sidestepping elk dung (or not in some cases), we went.

I had a sinus infection at the beginning of the week and all this fresh air released the flood gates of snot inside my head. Thankfully, I took a travel pack of tissues with me. Wet, slightly cold, but with my sinuses open, I’d have to say this is the cleanest air I’d ever smelled. Despite the severe wind damage in many parts of the trails (now closed), the Quinalt Rainforest has got to be some of the most breathtaking places on earth. Trees so large, ferns, lichens, mosses, wildlife, and the sound of rain all make you forget you are absolutely fucking soaked. And dirty. Did I mention, muddy? Hours into it, I didn’t mind and the thought did cross my mind to find a really big patch of mud and get absolutely coated with the stuff but I didn’t know if I would be welcomed into the car.

We went down some of the trails that were supposedly off-limits due to mudslides and fallen trees crossing the paths. We wandered for hours in the majestic beauty, sneakers and socks sopping wet, jeans marked with green and brown, my leather jacket and hoodie remarkably dry, and the cold not really affecting my spirit. Something about the whole event made me incredibly happy, alive, and somewhat horny – all reactions I didn’t expect. I even got to see the “World’s Largest Sitka Spruce Tree” which sounds silly, but really is fucking huge. At one point, I was staring into this gap between a root and another root which resembled an opening to a cave. I remembered thinking that this tree must be so ancient seeing more things pass it by while it thrived, the 13 colonies were forming, landscapes changed and presently I’d just be recorded as a tiny band lost in it’s interior recalling that point in it’s life, if at all.

Back in the car, we stripped off some of the more annoying garments thinking about places to eat for a late lunch. For three guys who hiked in some driving rain and hungry, we were awfully happy and even joking. “Hum-Dinger? That sounds like a guy who gives blow-jobs without any teeth!” Driving toward Aberdeen, somebody removed their shirt filling the car with their beautiful smell which acted as an aphrodisiac to the rest of us, causing somebody to remove their willie from their wet pants and smacking it in his hand and some armpit munching ensued. We’re just lucky we didn’t wreck or get pulled over by the cops for horrifying the locals.

We’d worked up an appetite and settled into a diner (not the Hum-Dinger!) for a bite to eat. Aberdeen – The home of Kurt Cobain, a logging community, and an “Irish pub”. We recounted our adventure, talked about all sorts of other things, stuffed our faces with mediocre food, and made plans for that night’s sushi feast and bar crawl. The night had only just begun with none of us feeling very tired.