Saturday, April 13, 2013

A nazi, riding a rather well hung t-rex

So, this happened.  I had no plans to make this, but as Isaid before, this garden project is all about spontanious bursts of creativity.  In face, soon as Ican get this last bed done and rock in, I'm off to another project.  A clay oven, but that will need to wait till this damn busted ankle of mine heals.

Like I said, this happened. 

It is Friday afternoon, Im at the grocery store waiting for a perscription to be filled.  Bored, I found my way to the toy isle looking at the plastc toys.  Nothing really making my creative radar go off.  Anyone else have this happen to them?  You could look at a dozen amazing, innterestng things in a day and not feel it, but then there is that one thing.  Could be an obscure object or perhaps an object you have never seen before and BAM! The ideas just begin to explode in your head.  For me, it is like seeing not the object, but rather seeing a myriad of lines, connecting the object to other objects or modifications, each line interlinking to another element, till you dont see the original object anymore, all you can see is what is will become. 

Sculptors talk about how they do not carve the stone into the shape they want, but rather they see what shape the stone wishes to be and work to free it from the stone.  Ihave yet to have the experince of looking at a solid object and seeing what shape it can be deconstructed inito.  I'm more of a, how can I build upon this kernel and expand it?

Wow, got metaphysical there for a sec huh?

Like I said, this happened.

Tossing aside the plastic safari animals and various dreck in the grocery store toy section, I was about to give u when we spotted it, a T-rex.  Next thing knew it had be being ridden by a Nazi.  This is a both an homage to game I love, Hollow Earth Expedition, as well as a long running joke amonst my friends. 
Rather than melting the army man's legs into position, I opted to just cut off his torso as well as a few of his squad mates, and glue the bits back into a relative semblance of a body in a saddle.  I've painted a few pewter gaming minatures so I know Ican make him look appropriatly Nazi enough for the garden.
Thing about my sense of humor? Good laughs always come in threes. Like my last piece, you had tentacles, in a garden.  Funny, but not enough, it needed something more. Another ironic element.  Hence, a tentacle, in my garden, fighting barbarians.  Hence, the giant penis.

Like I said, this happened. 
A sex toy reviewer frend somehow got thier hands on a number of tiny, silicone fantasy dildos.  Don't ask.... trust me.

Only real issue I had with this was attaching the penis.  Seems silicone and hot glue do not mix.  Not to worry, I just drove a scre into about where I thought a T-rex might consider his taint and used wire though the said tiny, fantasy dildo.  Plus side? The dino cock is now articulated, if I ever felt the need to pose it in different positions?

Once I see how well it fairs the rain, I'll see about some detail painting and maybe making another one.

The plant is is guarding is broccoli rab, a sort of cross between traditional broccoli and a field green.  Never grown it before, but it looks tasty.  I'm hoping to make something like kale chips with them. Mre info

Tuesday, April 09, 2013

Permision granted

Ihad my first plants emerge last night.  A lovely batch of rubber tentecals I recently put in.  What, dosent everyone plant rubber tenticals in thier mourning garden?  Oh, I guess not, perhaps I should explain.

See, much like fight club, operation "Plant potatoes not coffins" had a few, simple rules.  Also, unlike fight club, my garden has a decided lack of half naked, sweat covered Brad Pitt in it, what is the hold up Hollywood, didnt you get my repeated memmos alreaady?

Rule #1, the proper response is "yes, and..."
Rule #2, the garden is here to nourish not just your belly

Oh crap, I went all wibbly-wobbly new agey on you there for a sec, sorry that happens from time to time now that I amm spending more time on this project.  I'm sure it is some kind of alergic reation, probbaby can get it covered with some allegra or other such over the counter medication.    Still,  what does this have to do with the tentecals you ask?  I'm getting to that bit,  be patient while I see if I can squeeze a few more bad puns out of this train wreck of a blog posting.

First rule, always say yes, and.   There was never a doubt that I'd opt to add some funky,  personalized flair to my garden.  The real question is will I have more flair than flowering plants?   The tenticals came from an afternoon in the dirt,  trying to reuse some very old and eroded timbers.  Upon seeing the cliffs and ledges exposed when I turned the timbers over,  my first thought?  Little green army men.  Yep,   some plastic soldiers should be standing watch,  or better yet mounting an assault against another tiny,  pressed plastic  foe.  Aliens?  Cowboys?  Mormon missionaries perhaps?

Upon convince ingredients my wife that we just had to visit the Archie Mcviees story.  If anyone had tiny Mormons,  they would be it.   As fate would have it,  they had nothing.  Nadal.  Zip.  Nothing even army man ish....


Instead of sticking to an existing,  all be it silly one,  I gave myself permission to just go with the flow and trust that whatever I would eventually find, would rock.   So that is where I found the bucket of tentecals.  Unsure just how I would go about using them,  I took the leap of faith and got them.  Giving myself full creative licence to use them or not.   My only design requirements were that it should be cool to look at and bring some laughter back into the universe.  

There is more on this thought to discuss.  Let us return to it as I build more such opportunities for humor.

Sunday, April 07, 2013

Hand me back the conch, I still have something to say

When I first started writing this journal, the goal was 2 fold. Firstly im a storyteller,  Ive been borring anyone who would sit still long enough to listen with crazy stories about growing up on a farm or spending my teens as a missionary with the weight of someone else's prophesy that I was to grow up a "powerful man of god". So many stories that my wife beggged me to commit them to some kind of archive.  The second reason I took up the bloggers virtual quill? Well there was this girl.... then again, how many great creative endeavours were launched in the hopes of catching the attention of the opposite sex? Hmm? What is that you ask, did it work? We will be celebrating 9 years together soon, so yeah I think we could chalk that up as a win.

Fast forward now  what has it been? 8 no, 9 years.  That little rope company Istarted up in my garage now employees 4 full time bodies.  Oh and that wide eyed, "gosh I am just this guy who makes rope.." idealisim?  Well yeah, it has become a tad tarnished around the edged, but then again being the biggest dog in the room tends to do that.

However, this is not about bondage or even sex, what you ask?  A blog about things OTHER than someone's emerging kink and path of discivery to al things covered in shades of gray?  Yeah, not so much.  Right now, right now I am going to write a lot about my garden.  Yes, oh how the mighty have fallen, the oncegreat and  powerful Monk has beenreduced to blogging about tomatoes and just how far he will go in order to see them bloom in this town.  Seriously, you have no idea.  I think I'd take up starting another buisness from the ground up over trying to get some decent hierlooms to bloom. 

Where the fuck do I begin?  Hell with even trying to be linear, lets just get going already. 

The garden is codenamed "Project plant potatoes, not coffins" and was a response to learning that my uncle had recently died.  While Ihave never been super close to my family, that happes when your father and oldest brother disown you and compare you to the likes of hitler and that dude from helter skelter...but that is a tale for another day.  

My uncle was the youngest of thesiblings, the cool one.  The one whose pristine collectionof Hustler Magazines would be soiled by our grubby, curious hands.  Side note, years later he woud tell me that all I should expect in the will from him was his collection old Hustlers, everything from issue #1 to the most recent, save the ULTRA rare ones that my brother and I pilfered as youth.  "If you would have just told me, Icould have hooked you up, but nooooo," he would kid, you had to make off ith the grace slick issue AND Althea Flyntt!"

Mourning is a funny thing, after the death of my brother 4 years ago, Ibuilt a huge art installation.  Mind you, Idid not set out to do that, I just hae the worst timing in hstiry and his death would happen unexpectedly while Iwas in the early days of building. 

This time arround, no "art" and no sex.  Well you could argue that gardens are pretty sexy, but no, I want this to be something simple, a focus on putting life into the world, after so much has been taken away from it.  And so, here it sits, stage one planted and complete.  Less than 10 days since committing the seeds to soil and we have life emerging from the thick, black soil.

Returning to familar ground

While the digital record of the story that is my crazy, wonderful and sometimes horrifying life has sat dormant.... life, as it tends to, has not.
You have been all so patient that me asking for another moment or two of yours seems greedy, even for me, but ask I must.  A few moments more, dear reader, is all I ask. It has been far too long since I shared a tale with you all, and dear lords do I have some to share now.

Soon, I promise.

Thursday, December 29, 2011

Shows and Performances in January!
Jan. 16: Starving Artists on Parade (Seattle)
Come out on a Monday night and see me rig... there will be a dead girl and a body bag. Nuf' said?

Jan. 21: Art of Restraint (SF)
Bringing my own twist to the combination of art and sm.

Jan. 28: Steampunk Exhibition Ball (Seattle)
I'm returning to MC this event as well as perform.

Feb. 4: La Petite Mort's Dark Cabaret (Seattle)
Blood, boobs and bondage. What more do you need?

Think suspension bondage is boring to watch? Think again..

Live Performance "Tryst @ Little Red Studio 05/2010" from Twisted Monk on Vimeo.

Twisted Monk at Art of Restraint 3/27 from Twisted Monk on Vimeo.

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Sunday, December 18, 2011

Lessons on the field of green felt

The men of my family spoke the language of cars and pool. Ask them about a complex emotional or spiritual matter and they would freeze up, stare at you with cautious eyes and wait for your “trap” to fall. Now talk to them about the .60 over bored pistons and double wound cam that I wanted to install in my 1964 Corvair Spyder? Well we could discuss that all night.

We spoke two common tongues, my family and I, that of engines and of pool. Some of my best memories are of my father, guiding me on a lazy Sunday afternoon, thru some complex part of an engine rebuild. We all raced back then a trio of restored Corvairs. Each one sight to behold, from my father’s tricked out turbo to my own, heavily modified “touring” car, speed and power were the goals and we would talk at great length about the complexities of power vs. speed. Was it better to burn rubber at the light, vs. the value of pulling up from behind, to loose your competitor in the curves as they underestimate the skill of the man behind the wheel? If it had an accelerator pedal, we made love to the idea of what it could become.

Pool? We played pool for hours. It was the only thing we all could do with out wanting to kill or get so drunk that we did not have to deal with the other. Soon as my brother nd I were old enough to hold sticks, we were ushered into that dim, smoky world at every chance. My grandfather learned while working in a CCC camp during the depression, he taught my father and he taught my brother and I.

The green of a pool table, its smoky half light in the back of some unknown bar, will always stand out when I think if them. These men were my heroes, my mentors, my definition of what it meant to be a “man”. My granddad would saunter across the table from me, stetting his Olympia tall boy down just long enough to line up a shot. Fingers, stained yellow for years of nicotine would splay across the green of the table as he guided the queue between two broken and malformed knuckles, the result of keeping the engines of industry running.

Like his father, my father taught me. “Just 25 cents a lesson, son” he would joke as he schooled my arrogant young ass at the find art of pool. My gramps would say, “Show me a man who is good at pool, and I’ll show you a boy with a wasted childhood”. Needless to say, both my father and grandfather were astounding at playing the game. The kind of grace you would expect from a top surgeon or concert cellist, they would display on the felt. Fingers, nimble and splayed, eyes fixed on the ball, hands smooth and effortless in their execution.

This was where they taught me grace, just because you can hit that cue ball hard it does not mean you must. Rather, as I leaned over the table, tongue clasped in my teeth and I concentrated on the invisible lines of geometry that imagined across the table, each one predicting a different arc of my shot, was when they did it. My father did it first, placing a hand on my cocked elbow and holding it firm,
“Just cuz you can it that ball hard, don’t. Use some finesse. If you can’t sink it this round, ease it up nice and close so you can do it later… and confound your opponent.”

From them I learned the art of the “kiss”, to not strike too hard or rely in too many complex angles or bank shots. But rather to ease the ball, dare I say seduce it into falling into place, just millimeters from the edge of the pocket. There it would sit, waiting for me, and turning my opponent’s next shot into a profanity filled mish mash of bumpers and too much “English”

I’ve not played with my father in years, nor my brother, not since that dark day when the fates took him from this world. No, today those who love me put up with me as I saunter around the table, pint in hand, and do not roll their eyes at me when I push my glasses down my nose and prostrate myself upon the table. Hands splayed wide like my grandfathers, save this time the fingers are stained blue from rope dyes, but the knuckles are no less deformed, as I take aim and quip to my opponent, “show me a man who is good at pool…

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Monday, December 12, 2011

First and foremost, I’m a film nerd.

Specifically, I’m obsessed with the films of the early to mid 70’s and how they reflected our culture’s response to things like Watergate, Vietnam and the whole collapse of the 60’s “free love movement”. In short, I love grind house, exploitation films from the 1970s. Not only as entertainment, but also as a reflection of culture and shifting ideals, in fact I almost got tossed out of film school for arguing about the cultural significance of the x-rated film “Barbara Broadcast… but that is a story for another day.. When a blatantly pornographic film like Deep Throat can gain a mainstream audience and a film like Midnight Cowboy can not only carry the dreaded “X” rating, but also garner an Oscar nomination? Times, they were a changing and I’ve always said that you can tell a lot about a culture based on what it views as “porn”.

But I digress, I love old school porn. Probably my first erotic memories were from seeing the full page advertisements for 8MM loops in the back of the nudie mags I stole from my grandfather. Back then all the penetration was covered by black censor bars, but I remember the sheer volume of sexual images to be overwhelming to my young brain. If I had a time machine, I’d go back to NYC in the 70’s, to walk along 42nd street and experience the grind houses in person. Not for the sexual thrill but for what I call the “meta” to understand who and what made us tick, sexually and to understand why it had such an impact on my young brain

Again, I digress, but when it comes to this topic I can bore the paint off a wall at 20 paces with my thoughts, observations and (worst of all) questions.

Fast forward to the summer of 2011.

I have the unique and wicked pleasure to be traveling in Portland with a companion who is also a fan of the grind house. Much to my surprise, she informs me that in the heart of old town Portland there is an operating grind house theater, still! This is amazing, most of these monuments to rain coats and masturbation were closed down when the VHS tape took off and we could get smut in the comfort of our living room, not some smelly (often sticky) theater in the “bad” part of town. Much to my delight, this theater was still operating. Relying now on the hipsters and anime nerds, but its doors were open for us to wander into one warm summer eve.

(Jesus Monk, quit talking about social impacts of film theory and give the nice people something naughty to read!)

And so, this particular summer’s eve my companion was dressed in a short black dress. Nothing too “complex” to bastardize the great Mel Brooks, but it was what was *under* the dress that mattered. Beneath her simple dress, she wore long, silk stockings, connected to old school garter belts that came up to frame her panty clad ass like a pair of goal posts, guiding you into the in zone of her firm, pert bottom. Not the quasi “retro” kind, but the lace covered, thigh spreading wonders that only the 1970’s could manifest.

Stepping into the theater, we are greeted by an over eager door man. He is more than happy to explain that our presence at tonight’s showing would be free of charge and that anytime we wished (as a couple) to visit the theater it was “on the house”. Hmm, interesting to say the least, but who am I to complain? Sadly they were showing modern porn, not old school stuff that still existed on a reel of celluloid. Someday I hope to experience sitting in a darkened theater, listening to the whir and clatter of a projector as something taboo flickers to life on the screen before me. Again, I digress. Sorry. I’m out of practice at this blogging thing.

The theater it self was a dingy affair. A few hundred seats at most. Spread out in a bowl around a screen. A screen showing some random European girl getting her various bodily orifices stuffed by a number of random, forgettable (and slightly oily) euro dudes. We were soon to find out that what was happening on the screen was not the main attraction…

The usher guides us to the “couples space”, a cordoned off space in the back of the theater. Leather (ish) seats and a very solid looking, waist high fence awaited up as we sat back to take in the show.

Now is where things start to get a bit… odd.

Sitting back to enjoy the pornographic film playing on the big screen, my companion lays her head across my lap as she kneels at my feet. A very natural pose for her this particular weekend of sin. If my count of the heads in front of me is accurate, the theater holds about 30 to 40 patrons. At first they take no notice, then... Well then something odd begins to happen. A few brave souls get up from their seats in the middle of the theater and move to the back wings on the left or right of our position. Staying at what I could only call a “plausible deniable distance” the sat, watching us out of the corner of their eyes while pretending to still watch the feature on the screen.

Others were not so subtle, like prairie dogs we watched as one head after another pops up, turns back and realizes that there is an actual female in the audience. Leaving the well worn seats, they begin to line the barricade that separates our “couples only” space and the rest of the theater. Ignoring the girl as her anus takes not one, not too, but three cocks at once on the screen, they all sit in silent admiration for the girl at my feet. Each one waiting for her to do something, something *real*, not acted on the big screen.

Here is where I must pause and say that I am a sick, sadistic bastard. As the men stared, their eyes penetrating my companion in every possible way, I instructed her to stand. Stand and raise her skirts to the admiring crowd.

Hands slide off the rail and into *other* places as she parades her ass across the room for all the patrons to see. Panties stretched tight and wisps of hair peeking from between her legs, she giggles and shakes her ass with seductive glee before bending over my knee. If I am a bastard, she is a cock tease and enjoying the attention.

My hand rests on her bottom as she closes her eyes and pushes her ass up to meet me. My hand connects with her bottom, making a loud, sharp report. Some of the audience smile, others look with wary concern. This was not the show they were expecting. With growing force and speed, I strike her ass. Raising the skin to a bright, swollen red. Her thighs are aglow as the blood flows to her pale, almost transparent skin.

At my instruction, she stands skirt still up around her midsection and turns to the watching crowd, each one transfixed and staring with jaws agape.

“Show them your bottom, darling” I tell her.

“Now boys,” I say to the pie eyed men watching the scene, “I think you best give her a round of applause for her contribution to tonight’s entertainment”

Awkwardly hands emerge and a round of applause comes from the watchers. My companion blushes and takes a deep bow, showing them the growing wet spot in her panties.

I raise and take my date by the hand. Pushing through the watching crowd and making for the door. A chorus of “thank you”: can be heard from behind me as I steer her through the exit and into the night air.

“You are a mean man, Sir”: she tells me,” Not giving them anything more of a show than that”

“Oh my dear child” I laugh, “All good story tellers know that the best thing is to leave them wanting more….”

And into the warm night we walked, arm and arm.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Snapshots from Dr. Sketchy's Seattle

Some snaps from my rigging session on Sunday, Sept 18 with The Shanghai Pearl for Dr. Sketchy's "anti-art school"

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