The Boxer

The Boxer (2009)
9"x5"x4"
Bronze edition of 8

photograph by Phil Holland www.PHFX.com

The Boxer

It was a hot summer night in 1986 and I was losing the Somerset Court Cruiserweight title fight. My opponent was Koquis, a ruthless fighter with a wicked left hook and a rock chewing smile. I had devised a plan that was failing miserably and was contemplating letting him tire out by beating me to a pulp. I was tired and wanted to quit. One of my gloves flopped awkwardly. The eighth round brought a barrage of punches that can only be described as a rain of fire and torment; I went down. I wanted to stay down, I wanted to go home, and I didn’t want to fight ever again. I wiped the sweat and blood away from my eyes as I focused my vision and staggered to my feet. The referee asked me if I could continue. So I looked to my left for guidance, instructions, someone to throw in the towel and found no one. In my despair, luck couldn’t have had better timing. I looked to my right and found the only thing that could get me out of that hell: inspiration.

Her name was Angela, and she was the court manager’s daughter. Her eyes were a piercing ice cold blue and with a glance she could turn a desert into a blissful winter wonderland. She had dark hair, fair skin, and a smile, that would make you turn the deed to your house over to her. She was seated near Koquis’ corner and as the ref asked me if I could continue, I saw her smile up to him. Koquis returned a smile full of rotten teeth, bad breath, and purple gums. Jealousy and rage filled my gloves and my stomach knotted up so tight a chainsaw couldn’t have cut through it. My senses stiffened, my vision sharpened, and my body numbed. I told the ref I was ready. I was filled with anger and poise as I shuffled towards him. He was expecting me to retreat so he rushed me for the kill. I stepped in with a cork screw jab. I dropped a straight right into his gut. I felt the wind come out of him and his hideous mouth trembled. He threw a straight right back at me and I parried outside to the left. He then threw a wild left; I ducked under, stepped to right, and came up with an uppercut. I saw his knee buckle as he tied up with me and he was not yet aware that the wind had been knocked out of him. I held on and dragged him towards the center of the ring and in that split second I heard the awkward silence of the crowd as they tried to register what was happening. I dropped a shoulder into his chest as I side stepped to the right, pivoted left, and delivered an overhand right straight down on his nose. He dropped, his nose was gushing blood, and his teeth gnawed the sky for air. The crowd went hysterical as they saw their 7 to 1 favored champ wither in pain. I walked back to my corner with adrenaline rushing through every vein in my body. I wanted him to stand up, I wanted him to come at me, and I wanted to destroy his wretched mouth so that it may never smile at her again

The bell rang, the crowd cheered, and I was lifted up on the people's shoulders as the belt was handed to me. "You beat him, You beat him" they shouted. "You're the champ, You're number one. We knew you could do it." There were many good fights, but none as good as the fight from summer of '86. Nothing will ever come close to the moment in which I won the Somerset Court Cruiserweight title belt, looked over to Angela, and saw her smiling back.... at me.

Veronica (bronze)

Ladies and gentlemen I introduce to you

Veronica (2009)
14"x7"x5"
bronze edition of 8
currently- $1800



and If you haven't read her story yet, here it goes again.
----------------

Veronica

I met up with her at Ferns in Long Beach and by the sound of her voice on the phone she was on the last furlong towards rock bottom. Her short sleek black hair stuck to the tears on her face and her eyeliner ran like oil puddles on rainy days. She sat at the end of the bar near the restrooms and I was walking straight into an Etta James song. I swatted the barflies away and sat down next to her….

“What happened now, baby doll?”

She doesn’t answer. I ordered up another round and I give her a few minutes to compose herself. I knew she had just given her old squeeze the boot; she had been announcing her single status rather heavily.

“That video hurts so fuckin' much Rooster.” She quivers

“I know it does doll,” I respond whole-heartily.

The video she speaks of is a video of her freshly released ex-boyfriend being rather provocative with some girl at one of those college bars full of douche bags. Someone found it on the internet and sent it to her, funny thing is they really thought they were doing her a favor.

“His fuckin’ face in her muthafuckin’ ass! In her fucking ass!!” she shouts while griping her glass of wine. “He was just smiling, looking so enamored with her while his nose is in between her ass cheeks… Just fucking smelling it.”

I saw the video and I envied the fucker. It’s the kind of thing that separates you among other men. The kind of shit you brag about when you’re drunk. It’s like some one saying I climbed Everest and then you saying that’s cool but have you ever had a big fine ass rubbed in your face? I know the fucker was beaten up over losing Veronica – but I swear you could literally see his heart mending as he went further and further into her ass. That’s how nice that ass was.

“She don’t know me Rooster, she don’t know how much I meant to him. That bitch needs to know how much I fucked him up. How I made sure that he was damaged before I sent him out in the world to meet girls like her. How he'll never be over me,” she says that last line with broken pride.

“He fucked her didn’t he? By the looks of that video you know he ate her pussy too! I was his first, Rooster! I was the first girl he ever went down on! And now he’s just out there eating pussy left and right. I want to tell her… no… no… I want to SCREAM at her: I taught him that, you fucking cunt! That fucking orgasm that you just had in my man’s mouth you owe that shit to me! You’re fucking welcome!”

I order up another round and the tears start rolling again.

“Every time I look at their picture and at the fucking video I break down, Rooster. I literally have lost count of how many times I’ve looked at them,” she cries.

I wish I could say something to her to make her feel better but a broken heart is not so easily cured. If you want to know what it feels like to have your guts ripped out of your body - fall in love, then break-up.

“Rooster, do you think he loves her?” she asks in a pitiful voice.

“Darling, don’t ask stupid questions just have another drink”. I am against drinking with a broken heart; no good ever comes out of it. You cry and cry then you drink and drink but the pain never numbs. Also, you always reach a point when you become a bit belligerent and you stop caring about everything and Veronica was no exception…

“He looks so fucking happy in the video Rooster, happier than I ever saw him with me. And in the video he looks like he's having the best time of his life, but did he have to spank her so many times and so fucking hard?” Then she blankly stares off into space and starts to scream, “He used to spank me harder… bitch! Fuckin' bitch! Fuckin' Chipmunk looking cunt!! Fuck you Rooster if you think she’s cute! And, furthermore, I'd be very careful to mention that I was the asshole in the relationship and applaud the fact that the stupid asshole has moved on!!” Her rage is full force now and this ship is headed for disaster.

I know the kind of damage Veronica did to this poor sap – so, yeah, I do applaud the fact that he was able to bring her down to this point – but I don’t tell her that.

I grab her and we smash into the street before we get kicked out from the bar. I hail a cab and hog toss her into the back seat. She was barely coherent when I dragged her up to her place. I tossed her in bed and gently took off her shoes. I went into the restroom, stuck my finger down my throat and purged out my own sorrows.

When I go back into the bedroom she is standing on top of the bed with a strange look in her eyes. She starts screaming and crying… a combination of drool and snot coming out of her. “Why, Rooster? Why did he do this to me? Does her fucking pussy taste better than mine???? Does it?! I refuse to believe that a night of licking her ass erases 3 fucking years of me… of my pussy, of my ass, of OUR life! My pussy tastes sooo good, so much better than hers!” She falls to the mattress and sobs. I hold her till she falls asleep. I can see her chest raising and falling under her tight top. My mind starts going wild with thoughts... if she weren't so drunk, if I wasn't so drunk, if she wasn't so broken, if I had a condom.... I fall asleep.

I woke up with a mild hangover and the sun shining down on my face through the window. I get up and raid her medicine cabinet for mouthwash and a couple of Alka-Seltzers. I go over to check on her to make sure she survived the night, sadly she did. The only thing worse than drinking with a broken heart is being hung-over with a broken heart. It hurts so bad that you wish you would have never woken up. She wakes up and even though she has been through a hell of a battle – she has never looked so beautiful. Damage and all.

“Rooster, how the fuck did we get home?”

“A cab”

“I don’t remember leaving the place. Hey! You didn’t fuck me while I was out did you?”

“No.”

“How do I know you aren’t lying?”

“I'm still here.”

“Well, thank you. I’m sorry for suggesting it. I know you wouldn’t do that to me. Let me give you some cab fare.”

“That’s alright, I copped a feel on you as I carried you up to bed, I would feel guilty taking your money after that.”

She smiles.

-Red Rooster and Anonymous Doll 2009

Jazz baby!

These are a couple of sculptures commissioned for the 1st annual San Diego Jazz musicians guild contemporary art show. The theme was "What is Jazz to you?"
Photographs taken by Phil Holland www.phfx.com

The Abstract Trumpet
5" x 8" x 3"
Bronze edition of 5
currently- $900



Abstract Sax
9"x 5"x 2"
Bronze edition of 5
currently- $900

Show time

I'll be presenting new works at this groupshow

The Hive Gallery Group show and Performances
"November sculpture show"

November 7th, Saturday 8PM-12:30AM
$8 at door/ $5 for those dressed in Black and Yellow costume
Show runs November 07- 28

Embracing my demons

Embracing my Demons

A friend once told me that the only thing that keeps me going is this belief that my art will set things right for me one day. I asked him if that was a good thing. He told me, “it all depends on which day you wake up on. Some days will suck others not so much. The second you doubt it; all is lost”. I knew from the get go that my decision to be an artist was going to be a bit of a gamble. I knew about the rocky relationships and the shaky bank accounts before hand.

It was 2 am and I had been trying to start my car up for over half an hour. I was draining my battery and my patience and so was she. “We should have brought my car” she said. “I’ll get it started, relax” I told her. I knew, from the moment that I glanced into her eyes that she was no longer having it; the car, the Artist, this relationship, no more. A few days later she broke up with me, gave me the boot, over the phone. “I need some one better than me to push me, to make me feel better about myself” she told me. “Maybe if you were more successful” she said. “Think very hard about your decision baby doll”, I told her, “Because if you leave, this is it; There aint no coming back. There aint no coming back”. She didn’t even hesitate with her decision, “Ok then. That’s that”. I grew a bit bitter over the following weeks and dwelled in and out of depression. She really did a number on me. The main reason for my depression was not because she was gone but because I was looked down on as a failure by her. I became the deadbeat artist; the thing I dread most

Truth is, the last thing that I need is some girl who has trouble loving who she is and relying on me to push her. I don’t need some one making me feel bad about my decisions; about who I am. I’ve got goals that need to be met baby, I’ve got an agenda to stick to doll, and more importantly I’ve got the balls to get it done momma. Ol’ Honey throat himself, George Burns, said it best, “I honestly think it is better to be a failure at something you love than to be a success at something you hate”.

My car started on the first turn of the ignition today. He roared as he woke from his sleep. Every one down the street turned and stared as he strutted all of his American made Chrysler steel down 109^th street. Don’t get him wrong He’s not an arrogant car, he doesn’t claim to be the best car on the road, nor does he try. He is well aware of his faults; leaky transmission, leaky oil pan, his weak power steering pump, his faulty automatic choke, all his lights don’t work, below par body work, and he’s got a faulty gas gauge that always seems to get him into “interesting” situations. No, he’s not arrogant at all; on the contrary my car is confident. When my 1973 dodge dart strolls down the street, wrapped in black with tinted windows, sporting a set of Cragar SS rims, aware of his faults, people compliment him on his effortless sense of style. Drips I can fix, dents I can repair, but a sweet ride is hard to come by.

I am not a perfect man; I have demons, I have problems but I confront them and I have learned to embrace them. They have made me the artist, the sculptor, the rooster, the man who I am today. Sometimes they knock me to my knees sometimes they slap my in the face, but I always punch back.

Veronica

Here is one of my latest pieces. She is entitled Veronica. I have included the concept art for the piece along with several in progress photos and a story which I co-wrote with "Anonymous doll".

She measures 14"x5"x5" I have used Chavant le beau touche to sculpt her and she is to be cast in bronze. Click on photos to see full size image













-----------------------------

I met up with her at Ferns in Long Beach and by the sound of her voice on the phone she was on the last furlong towards rock bottom. Her short sleek black hair stuck to the tears on her face and her eyeliner ran like oil puddles on rainy days. She sat at the end of the bar near the restrooms and I was walking straight into an Etta James song. I swatted the barflies away and sat down next to her….

“What happened now, baby doll?”

She doesn’t answer. I ordered up another round and I give her a few minutes to compose herself. I knew she had just given her old squeeze the boot; she had been announcing her single status rather heavily.

“That video hurts so fucken’ much Rooster.” She quivers

“I know it does doll,” I respond whole-heartily.

The video she speaks of is a video of her freshly released ex-boyfriend being rather provocative with some girl at one of those college bars full of douche bags. Someone found it on the internet and sent it to her, funny thing is they really thought they were doing her a favor.

“His fucken’ face in her muthafuckin’ ass! In her fucking ass!!” she shouts while griping her glass of wine. “He was just smiling, looking so enamored with her while his nose is in between her ass cheeks… Just fucking smelling it.”

I saw the video and I envied the fucker. It’s the kind of thing that separates you among other men. The kind of shit you brag about when you’re drunk. It’s like some one saying I climbed Everest and then you saying that’s cool but have you ever had a big fine ass rubbed in your face? I know the fucker was beaten up over losing Veronica – but I swear you could literally see his heart mending as he went further and further into her ass. That’s how nice that ass was.

“She don’t know me Rooster, she don’t know how much I meant to him. That bitch needs to know how much I fucked him up. How I made sure that he was damaged before I sent him out in the world to meet girls like her. How he'll never be over me,” she says that last line with broken pride.

“He fucked her didn’t he? By the looks of that video you know he ate her pussy too! I was his first, Rooster! I was the first girl he ever went down on! And now he’s just out there eating pussy left and right. I want to tell her… no… no… I want to SCREAM at her: I taught him that, you fucking cunt! That fucking orgasm that you just had in my man’s mouth you owe that shit to me! You’re fucking welcome!”

I order up another round and the tears start rolling again.

“Everytime I look at their picture and at the fucking video I break down, Rooster. I literally have lost count of how many times I’ve looked at them,” she cries.

I wish I could say something to her to make her feel better but a broken heart is not so easily cured. If you want to know what it feels like to have your guts ripped out of your body - fall in love, then break-up.

“Rooster, do you think he loves her?” she asks in a pitiful voice.

“Darling, don’t ask stupid questions just have another drink”. I am against drinking with a broken heart; no good ever comes out of it. You cry and cry then you drink and drink but the pain never numbs. Also, you always reach a point when you become a bit belligerent and you stop caring about everything and Veronica was no exception…

“He looks so fucking happy in the video Rooster, happier than I ever saw him with me. And in the video he looks like he's having the best time of his life, but did he have to spank her so many times and so fucking hard?” Then she blankly stares off into space and starts to scream, “He used to spank me harder… bitch! Fucken bitch! Fucken Chipmunk looking cunt!! Fuck you Rooster if you think she’s cute! And, furthermore, I'd be very careful to mention that I was the asshole in the relationship and applaud the fact that the stupid asshole has moved on!!” Her rage is full force now and this ship is headed for disaster.

I know the kind of damage Veronica did to this poor sap – so, yeah, I do applaud the fact that he was able to bring her down to this point – but I don’t tell her that.

I grab her and we smash into the street before we get kicked out from the bar. I hail a cab and hog toss her into the back seat. She was barely coherent when I dragged her up to her place. I tossed her in bed and gently took off her shoes. I went into the restroom, stuck my finger down my throat and purged out my own sorrows.

When I go back into the bedroom she is standing on top of the bed with a strange look in her eyes. She starts screaming and crying… a combination of drool and snot coming out of her. “Why, Rooster? Why did he do this to me? Does her fucking pussy taste better than mine???? Does it?! I refuse to believe that a night of licking her ass erases 3 fucking years of me… of my pussy, of my ass, of OUR life! My pussy tastes sooo good, so much better than hers!” She falls to the mattress and sobs. I hold her till she falls asleep. I can see her chest raising and falling under her tight top. My mind starts going wild with thoughts... if she weren't so drunk, if I wasn't so drunk, if she wasn't so broken, if I had a condom.... I fall asleep.

I woke up with a mild hangover and the sun shining down on my face through the window. I get up and raid her medicine cabinet for mouthwash and a couple of Alka-Seltzers. I go over to check on her to make sure she survived the night, sadly she did. The only thing worse than drinking with a broken heart is being hung-over with a broken heart. It hurts so bad that you wish you would have never woken up. She wakes up and even though she has been through a hell of a battle – she has never looked so beautiful. Damage and all.

“Rooster, how the fuck did we get home?”

“A cab”

“I don’t remember leaving the place. Hey! You didn’t fuck me while I was out did you?”

“No.”

“How do I know you aren’t lying?”

“Im still here.”

“Well, thank you. I’m sorry for suggesting it. I know you wouldn’t do that to me. Let me give you some cab fare.”

“That’s alright, I copped a feel on you as I carried you up to bed, I would feel guilty taking your money after that.”

She smiles.

-Red Rooster and Anonymous Doll 2009

life drawing

I did draw her left hand, it just didn't fit in the scanner....

Monica

This is a work in progress of Monica, based on a drawing I made a few months ago.

P.S. that letter needs re-writing. It sounds bitter and desperate to me. Kinda like when you stop talking to a chick who really dug you, then she gets with some other dumb ass and takes pictures of them hanging out and doing all kinds of lovey-dovey shit and sends them to you trying to make you jealous and shit but she wishes she was still with you. the "P.S" part sounds cheesy too.......yeah, so I need to re-write that letter.

Portraits

I recently started doing Portrait commissions.
Here are a few examples of some portraits Ive done.

If you would like to commission a portrait from me I can be contacted at
xRedRoosterx@gmail.com
or at
www.myspace.com/xredroosterx

Cheers,
-Red Rooster

Rebecca




Lizz




Paige




Joseph




Gandih

Drawings

Here go a few drawings I recently made. They are drawn with Prisma color pencils while either intoxicated or starving. I tend to draw to keep my mind off eating, yet Im not skinny....sigh.
-Rooster

P.S. some of these letters are not real, I just thought they give the drawings a bit more back story.

La Mariachi (2008)

Many of you have been waiting for me to finish this babe for a while and I apologize for taking so long to do so. First off Id like to give props to my photogropher Phil Holland for doing such an awesome job on photographing her. Secondly shes up for Sale. you can own one of these dolls for $450. I only wanted to release 3 of these gals but then every one wanted to own one so I decided to double the edition to 6 one of a kind pieces. So If your wondering what to waste that stimulus check on why not support an artist. You can find the original story to La Mariachi here
Below you can read a new story I wrote entitled, "Good ideas and bad women"

La Mariachi (2008)


Good ideas and bad women

It was Sunday afternoon and I woke up from a bad dream nursing a hangover. I checked the call log on my phone hoping I didn’t piss off too many people with drunken phone calls. I wiped the sweat off my brow and stripped to my shorts. I reached for the bottle of club soda that I keep on the nightstand and draw back a good one while I listen to a message from a doll I’ve been avoiding for sometime now, “Hey rooster hope your doing fine, this is Tanya, I was just calling to say ‘Hi’. I think I saw you leaving the Powwow Saloon last Friday around 11. I think it was you. You where driving a silver Taurus or something. Anyways, give me a call when you get a chance alright, bye” Tanya is a girl I met one night while winging a buddy. There were hardly any women that night and for the sake of not letting a night go to waste we decided to talk to the only chicks at the bar. At the end of the night our friends exchanged numbers and since me and Tanya had a somewhat deep conversation about ball bearings and cheese cloth, I felt a little obligated to exchange numbers with her as well. We talked a few times on the phone but I cut the connection after I tried to get her to come over one night and she wouldn’t budge.

I decided to get some serious work done that night so I sat down and started designing some new sculptures. I had a few Ideas I had been playing with for sometime now and tried to put them down on paper. I quickly drew out some quick doodles to loosen up a bit then did a little playing with surface planes and curves. Tried applying them to some figures but could not get them to flow consistently. I wanted to start playing a bit more with light this time around but just couldn’t find anything that satisfied me. I opened up a few books looking for reference, and then did a little meditation. I turned up the radio and blasted some jazz for a bit hoping it loosens me up some. I ended up laying out some good designs but they still required a bit more structure and flow. One of the things I kept struggling with was trying to keep true to my original concept. Many times an artist can come up with a good idea but end up fucking it up by cutting corners. Nothing good ever came out of cutting corners.

A good idea is like a good woman. If you cut corners or have no idea how to handle them they can ruin you. For instance, say you see a beautiful woman at the end of the bar. You build up enough courage in you to go over and initiate a conversation with her. You sit around, have a few drinks, and enjoy each others company. She asks you where you’re from, what do you do, and all that. That’s her way of checking your qualifications and if you don’t live up to them she’s not going to give you the time of day. Now, let’s say you meet her qualifications, you guys go out a few times, you start a relationship, and then after a few months you start getting comfortable. You begin to cut corners on her, stop giving a shit about your appearance, let your gut go, and before you now it she’s thrown your ass to the curve. Then, a few months go by, you try and contact her, and find out that not only has she kicked you to the curve but she’s also found another man and to fuck things up a bit more she’s engaged. Then you turn to drinking and hookers and before you know it you’re ruined. Now let’s look at how this relates to ideas.

You’re sitting around on a Sunday night and you come up with a good idea. Assuming you have the proper qualifications to undertake this project, i.e. proper education, enough research, and funds, you decide to take the initiative and begin working on your idea. So a few days go by, your funds start to slip, then you’re challenged by an unforeseen problem, you begin to cut corners, and half ass everything just for the sake of getting this shit done. You finish your piece and it looks nothing like your original concept. You’ve wasted tons of money on this big pile of shit you created, you get depressed, you forget completely about your idea, and let the damn thing sit in your garage for weeks on end. Then a few months go by, you try and work on that good idea once more but find out that some other artist has already made that idea and done a better job at it. That artist ends up gaining recognition and selling the piece for a ton of money. You grow bitter, depressed, and turn to drinking and hookers. You’re ruined.

On the other hand bad ideas are abundant and easy to find. Just walk into any trashy bar on any given night and you’ll find a bad idea looking for company. You call it up on a Sunday night after 3 weeks of no action. You go on over and dance with your bad idea for a while. A few months go by, your bad idea calls you, and tells you that in 9 months shell probably have ideas you’ll be interested in. Since you don’t really dig your bad idea that much anymore, you end up calling her drunk one night, end up telling her to go fuck her self, and before you know it your bad ideas turn into bad days. This will also lead you to drinking, hookers and your ruin. So don’t half ass your shit.

Sunday, 9:12pm

Tanya: “hello”
Rooster: “Hey doll how you doin’”
Tanya: “I’m alright how bout you? How was your day?”
Rooster: “It was good got a little work done here and there”
Tanya: “That’s nice”
Rooster: “Yeah, hey listen I was wondering if maybe you’d like to grab some donuts or somethin’”
Tanya: “ha, you’re funny?”
Rooster: “what?”
Tanya: “nothing, but if you want to come over, that’ll be cool”
Rooster: “Over your place?”
Tanya: “yeah”
Rooster: “give me 20 minutes”

-Red Rooster 2008

Barstool Philosopher (2008)

What the fuck is the deal with drunks?
So I finally finished this piece entitled "the Barstool Philosopher". He will be a limited run of 4 pieces selling at $400 each. I tried a new painting technique this time around. I was a bit inspired by early German expressionism and the sloppy drunks that I run into at bars. These awesome photos were taken by my good friend Beth Ashby Ferrara, you can check out her work at, www.fotojedi.com Below is the original story I wrote a few moths ago when I first finished sculpting him. Hope you guys dig it. Safe drinking and sorry to all of you who received my drunk calls and messages this past weekend, cheers!
-Red Rooster







The Barstool Philosopher


The dim light of the bar hides her bite marks on my neck.
My lips are bruised, my shoulders are scratched and I got a knot on my forehead.
Ive got a slight headache from lack of sleep and my sunken eyes burn.
I take a draw from the cold bottle and place it over my knotted forehead as I think about her stupid dog figurine.

"You know that thing is worth over 200 dollars", she said. "...but I got it for 20 at a yard sale from some old lady who didn't know what she was selling."

"You got jacked", I replied.

Her eyes cringed and upper lip stiffened as she punched me on my chest.
I laughed at her sad attempt to hurt me.
I grabbed her slick black hair, pulled her head back and began to passionately kiss, suck, and bite her neck.
She bit my lips till they bled and scratched seven layers of skin off my back.
A Woman like that should be caged up somewhere.

The beer bottles clank, ping, and crash all around me and my pint glass is due for a refill.
I signal the bartender and order me up another Guinness.
In a low lit corner near the edge of the bar, sits the bar stool philosopher in search of an audience.
I recognize him by his forced desperate awkward laugh.
Hes trying to make friends with anyone at the bar but its only a sad attempt to sell his pathetic life story to anyone dumb enough to listen.
He pulls up the stool next to me and begins his sad song.

"Yeah man, I work delivering beers and barely make enough money to make it. My kid is the brightest in his class and I'm going to do what ever it takes to keep him at a private school. public schools in LA are gone to shits. My Wife is threatening to divorce me but is waiting till she gets her fucken car paid off. I'm trying to fuck this bartender here but I don't want her to get attached. Yeah, I know what its like out there on the streets man, I grew up in Pasadena. All those white people hate Mexicans out there but I'm a Chicano and I don't give a fuck. Yeah, I work delivering beer and barely make enough money to make it....you know what I mean man?"

After three beers hes resolved his problems and feels the needs to give me advise.

"You know what man, your young you should save your money and buy a house. My cousin Chayo just bought her house in Riverside. She's remodeling it and then she's going to sell it. Who beat you up?"

"Some girl"

"Aww fuck that I would never let some bitch treat me like that. My wife tries to tell me what to do and I'm like fuck that. I never trust a woman. One time my homeboy Stephen took his son to the movies and when he came back his girl was fucking some black dude. Fuck that if I found my woman with some Negro Id kill them both. I never trust women. But for real man, I'm a nice guy. you know what they call me? Gentle Giant. Thats 'cause I'm big and look mean but I'm a good guy on the inside. You should go back to school and get an education. My brother Rickey got out of jail when he was 24, went back to school and now he owns his own body shop. Its all about making money and fucking bitches. Never get married, that shit just fucks you up. Hey, have you been checked? (for disease) Fuck that homeboy go get checked tomorrow you just never know who these bitches been fucking. I remember back in 92 when the Riots happened me and my homeboy Rigo came up on a Street Fighter II video arcade game and set it up in his grandmas house and charged all the little kids a quarter to play. You see I've always been about making money. Hey, you should go Holla' at that girl over there, she hot foo'. Yeah man, I deliver beer and barely make enough money to make it."

He finally gets too drunk and belligerent and ends up getting kicked out of the bar. The bartender tells me,

"You shouldn't let your friend drink too much".

"I have no Idea who that dude is"

"but you where talking to him for a long time"

"He was talking, I was drinking"

"So, who beat you up?"

"Some girl"

"Why?"

"Because I'm a sculptor and I barely make enough money to make it............."

-Red Rooster 2007

Step 2: The Sketch

So next up is the sketch. I usually sketch out my sculptures ahead of time and use my sketch as a guide. I know lots of sculptors who don’t even bother with this part and dive right in. Thats cool too, I just like to plan ahead a little because it saves on materials in the long run and it just makes things go a lot faster when you visualize and know what the end product should look like.

This particular piece is based on the previous story (BIG TROUBLE in little tokyo). Its also a collaboration between me and my friend, a very talented sculptor known as Phil Ramirez. For those who don’t know Phil is one of the most talented toy sculptors in the industry and his work is insanely and ridiculously awesome. I am beyond great full and equally as honored to be working with Phil Ramirez.
So I have designed a frame that will house a sculpture of a woman that is being sculpted by Phil Ramirez. The Idea for this frame is that it will be made up of abstract arms and fists that signify a brawl. Then after I sketch it I take it to a photo copier and blow it up to whatever size I want to. This makes it easier to mock up and figure out how much material you’ll need.
This is the sketch. I’ll up date with pictures of the mock up and armature build later.

The Red Rooster is back! (step 1: The Story)

All right!
Check it, my ass was in a slump for a bit. I acted a little un-Roosterish to many of you. I didn't reply back as often to messages, so on, and so forth. I haven't done anything significant as far as sculpting, just a few political soaps.Which you can check out at
www.dugshop.com
I haven't updated my blog in about 3 months and all that crap. Went on a little bit of a downward spiral for a bit and yes in case you are wondering it did involve a woman.

But the Red Rooster has combed back his feathers, kicked a few vices, and is back with a vengeance! So Beware the Red Rooster baby, for he is not and evil man just a damn good looking one.
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So people have been asking for a tutorial and to tell you the truth, that shit is hard to put together. Believe me when I say that I will put one together in the near future. For now I will start a very rough step by step process of how I put together a piece starting with a story, leading to an initial concept sketch and ending with the final piece................
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step 1

THE STORY (inspiration)

I never took any writing classes nor do I claim to be a writer. But sometimes I just got to write some shit to keep me sane. So I usually get my inspirations from interesting events that Ive experienced here and there. When I create a sculpture its usually an homage to a night in which I learned a lesson gained some new insight or came to a realization. I try to not hold back on my feelings and or my opinions. I don't like to name names either because thats just disrespectful so many times I rename the characters or make them up for the sake of the story. I try and write in essay format and try and use a rhythm similar to this:

explain event number 1

then how you felt about event number 1

explain event number 2

then how you felt about event number 2
and so on and so forth...
Some times when I write out of pure rage all that shit can go out the window so I try and keep my self close to that structure as much as I can. It also helps to read a little, listen to music that will make you think, and shit like that.

This is my most recent story entitled:

BIG TROUBLE in little tokyo
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It was the best of times; it was the worst of times…….



A new Doll had been messing with my head again. My job, my relationships, my money, my sanity, it was all hanging off the very tips of my fingers, and my wits. Those endless empty nights full of nothing but cold faced and short tempered women can turn a man bitter real quick and no amount of strippers can cure that. With the new doll my nights had grown shorter and my bed warmer but my self respect had withered and was very questionable. What drives a man to such insane and chaotic cold depths; to give up who he is, for a state of uncertain comfort? Is there always a woman to blame or is it just himself? My name is the Red Rooster, friends' call me "Rooster", as you might expect.



As usual, the phone rings on the weekend only to invite me on another pointless journey into a small dark corner of Los Angeles. The man, if you can call him that, on the other side of the line is none other than Johnny Jihad and his Technicolor dream coat,

"Hey sexy, were heading out to jumbos to drink some beer and give our paycheck away to the strippers."

"I don't know man I've been having a rough week."

"Aww come on Rooster don't be a fag. We'll be there at 8."



I walked into jumbos at half past eight ordered up a hard shot of whiskey and a beer to take the edge off my soul. The relationship between us, my soul and I, is like that of an old, unhappy, married couple. They are constantly blaming each other and neither willing to take responsibility for their actions. My soul is a fucking diva, always demanding attention and only putting out enough to keep me around. Jumbos was not too busy that night and they must have found what was stinking up the bar because it smelled better than the last time I was there. The soft ass hipster drinking a PBR next to me was content with drinking shitty beer because he felt he was keeping it real. But you won't find realism in the beer you drink, the ragged designer clothes you wear, nor the dilapidated "artsy" apartment that you live in. Tyler Durten said it best, "You're not your fucken khakis." You find real life down some dark alleyway at 3 a.m. laying at the bottom of a dumpster wrapped in a blanket, neglected, unrecognized, starved and abandoned giving away its last cry and breath to a city who cares more for its greed driven gentrification than its own sanity; Fucken hipsters. I grabbed a seat next to Johnny Jihad, the one they call tatanka, and Joe. I tossed two of the seven dollars I had in my pocket to a cute doll dancing rather provocative to some Rolling Stones. I thought she was cute, Tatanka thought she was a skank but then again Tatanka is a hard man to impress. So he made it a point to pawn her off on me when she decided to slither over to our side of the bar at about two whiskey shots past the hour. She begins to ramble about everything yet nothing at all in common stripper fashion. She was a tall blonde German girl, her accent was ripe, and her figure was that of an angel; an angel with a pair of tits that guaranteed a one way ticket to hell. I didn't mind her rack being fake but then again they where real enough to touch. After about 2 minutes of me staring at her yams and her talking about how cool my jacket was, she new she wasn't going to squeeze any more money out of me so she got up and left. She must have been a rookie because most girls catch that in under a minute; nonetheless I was grateful for her company.



We decided to leave jumbos and head over to the Frolic room, my bar of choice. I order me up another bud and a round for the guys. The Frolic room is always a "hit or miss" with the chicks and that night it was definitely a miss. The more I slipped into drunkenness the more I kept thinking about that doll that's been messing around with my marbles again. For some reason I had fallen hard for this doll. The more I wanted her the more she avoided my calls. I found my self in a state of "neediness" and "little-bitch-ness". This was quite annoying because I could see my self in slow motion losing my self respect, becoming a sad chump, and that just screwed with my head even more. I should have just dropped her but that feeling of "something special" blinded my efforts. I was being sucked in to her flame and was going to get burned badly. At first she was very responsive to my crowing but I gave her too much and now felt the tables turn. I was desperately trying to hold on and dwelling in the pain of not being able to do so. A man shouldn't give too much value to a woman, she must first earn it. When a woman has you she no longer wants you, and you better hope she's nice enough to leave you and not use you till there's nothing left.



Tatanka had slowly turned into 6 feet 4 inches of sloppy drunkenness and "lactose intolerant Joe" found out what made his White Russian, white. We decided to call it a night. Me and Johnny Jihad stuffed Tatanka into Joes' Corolla and wished the best for both of them as they drove off into the night. Me and Jihad decided to grab some breakfast at this fine joint in little Tokyo called Kouraku. My mouth watered for shrimp omelet covered pork fried rice, bathed in sweet and sour gravy. My eyes rolled back at just the thought of it. I was hungry as a wolf and I howled to express it. Christmas brought a new moon this year and the remnance of it was still felt. I howled at the moon several time as we walked towards Kouraku when one of my howls was interrupted by some cat that ruffled my feathers when he said,

"Hey! Have some respect for the lady!"

As it turns out this knuckle dragger was walking some hot Asian dame back to her ride and saw a chance to prove his devotion for her. You see I didn't feel the need to apologize because I did nothing wrong. I could have probably reasoned with him but where's the fun in that? So I looked him right in the eye and howled in his face and in a tone similar to that of a TV villan I said,

"I'm just having a good time."

Was I pecking at him? Hell yeah I was!

"Oh yeah asshole, how bout getting your ass beat is that a good time?"

And in drunken Red Rooster fashion I replied,

"Don't threaten me with a good time baby…."



The sucker punch felt more like a soft slap and this "Baby Huey" despite of his size, had no weight behind his punches. It didn't feel like much of a fight, as a matter of fact it was kind of funny. This little bitch kept saying some of the cheesiest lines ever. He was probably a comic book geek who finally got to be the pussy ass hero he always dreamt of becoming: CAPTAIN SAVE-A-HOE!! After trading punches with this guy for about a minute, which in all honestly I don't remember one of his punches landing on me, I stumbled and tripped on my own drunkenness. The floor is the last place you want to be when the guy you're fighting is sober and your not. As an added bonus this, Baby Huey called upon Dewey and Louie. That's when the fight finally got interesting. I didn't want to stop fighting even though I was on the floor getting stomped on by three scumbags. Johnny Jihad did what he could to help but I knew very well that we couldn't beat those guys in the condition we were in but there was no way in hell I was going to tuck feathers and run from these chumps. I sloppily threw punches to the wind; I laughed at them and rudely asked them to buy me a shrimp omelet just to piss them off more. They were a joke and they represented all of it; the city, the women, the bullies, my battered self respect, life. They kicked, punched, and tried to gouge my eyes but failed to break me……. so I laughed in their face.



-Red Rooster 2008

"IN THE MIX" show

Been working my ass of to get these babies done in time for the show.
Ill be showing a couple new pieces at this group show. Come on down and say whats up. I'll be hanging out for a bit, then I'll be at the bar next door to Ghetto Gloss. See you Suckas there!
-Red Rooster
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In The Mix
The Effects of Pop Surrealism in Mixed Media
The Group Art Show at
Ghettogloss™
2380 Glendale Blvd.
Silverlake, CA 90039
T 323 912 0008
F 323 912 0011
ghettogloss@ghettogloss.com

This is the way to climax your year
Sataurday, December 1, 2007
Curated By LC of Cannibal Flower and Thinkspace,
Pop Surrealism is defined as: the next generation of the lowbrow art movement,
technical craftmanship combined with creativity,and the attack of illustration and graffiti on fine art.The show is a study of how mixed media art is effected by pop surealism, showcasing sculptures, contraptions, paintings and other various mediums on found items that will lick your skull like a cocktail in the bahamas.This show will celebrate the work of mixed media and all its many varieties.

This Show will be one to remember
come early stay late

The Self Interview (part 1)

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The Self Interview (part 1)

In a converted one car garage in the Athens on the hill neighborhood of south central Los Angeles resides one of the sexiest sculptors alive. He is known as the Red Rooster. This feathery fellow started sculpting his life away around the age of 13. An art school drop out who managed to educate himself from art books found and bought at yard sales and swap meets. Late last year someone gave this crazy man the idea of starting a blog and chronicling his downward spiral into the world of sculpture. Here Red Rooster speaks with Juan Balandran, who happens to be his best friend in the whole wide world, about Art, God, and Heartbreak in the underbelly of Los Angeles.

Juan Balandran: What was it like for you growing up?

Red Rooster: Well I grew up in the city of Paramount. My father was a Carpenter and my mother sold used merchandise at the Paramount swap meet. My father was part of the carpenters union so when he was in between jobs he worked with my moms at the swapmeet. It was the family business. So I was basically raised at the swapmeets and in high school all I wore was clothe found and bought at yard sales. Which I didn’t mind because Id always find cool shirts and shit.

JB: Why did you decide to study art?

RR: I always had a thing for drawing. As long as I could remember I always drew and I always wanted to be better than anybody at doing it. So I always was looking for ways to improve my self so studying art came sort of naturally. I also hated working at the swapmeet and I found art more entertaining.

JB: Did your parents encourage you in your artistic endeavors?

RR: Yeah, but like any concerned parent they wanted me to get a real job… that pays…like the swapmeet

JB: what art school did you go to?

RR: I didn’t really go to art school I took a semester and a half at Mt.SAC city collage then I bounced.

JB: why did you drop out?

RR: because man I needed to start making a living. I joined up with a buddy and his dad and did work as a Laborer for a contractor company. It cost my parents to much to send me to school and my ass was just too academically unfit to apply for any grants or scholarships. Plus most of the crap I was being taught in school was all beginners art stuff and I just grew frustrated with it. I sought out to make money on my own and go to some school like academy for the arts or some private school like that.

JB: What artists influenced you?

RR: shit that list can go on for ever. Simon Bisley had a big influence on me growing up as well as Bart Sears and Sam Keith they where my comic art heroes growing up. Bart Sears had a monthly tutorial in Wizard magazine called brutes and babes. I would cut those articles out every month and collect them in a 3 ring binder. As far as sculptors go, The Shifflet brothers where my first big influence followed by Stanislav Szukalski, and Jacques Lipchitz,. Other classical influences include Modigliani, Rodin, Vangogh, Klimt, Schiele, de Lempicka. Instructors like Greg Smith from Mt. SAC and the notorious Glen Villpu also had a big influence on my work.

JB: Do you believe in God?

RR: well, yeah. Although I don’t think he’s quite the dictator the churches make him out to be. Sometimes I sit and wonder if god ever stresses. You know like when Jesus was gone for three days before resurrecting. Do you think god was like,” Boy!! where the fuck where you? You where supposed to come right home after the crucifixion but instead you disappeared for 3 days and not even a phone call, you could have been lying dead in a ditch somewhere, muthafucka I was stressin'. I dont mean to yell , but I care about you boy!"

JB: Do you do drugs?

RR: yeah but nothing heavy, just a little medicinal Methamphetamine and prescription Crack cocaine.

JB: What’s you favorite quote?

RR: “I rebel; therefore we exist.” by Albert Camus. Well actually it’s a three way tie because I also like, "abuelita te guarde la ultima papa mojo!!” By that annoying kid in the Spanish Shakey’s pizza commercial and, “Abstract Art: A product of the untalented, sold by the unprincipled to the utterly bewildered”, also by Albert Camus.

JB: Your favorite beer?

RR: well most people think its Budweiser or Bud lite but the fact is that I only drink that shit when I’m hurtin’ for dough. When someone’s treating I like having a little Hefeweizen or Guinness.

(End of part 1)

One of those nights

So Ive been a little busy the past month or so. I was working on a commission, a new piece, and a custom skull for a show due next week. I don't have any info on the skull show yet. Pictured above is a small preview of a new piece I'm currently working on. Its a collaboration/ homage to an artist whose work has inspired me for many years. I will put together a small tutorial to go along with this doll when shes finished. I will debut her at the show I'm a part of in Dec. I'll keep people posted on exact date and time for both shows.

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One of those nights

I never set out to be a loner it just sort of happened. It was Saturday after payday and I was already hurtin’ for money man. It was 10 pm and my phone hadn’t rung in over a day. I sat around the previous two days with my sketch book trying to draw up some new ideas but the artist block not only frustrated me it depressed me and my gut began to ache for a beer. I decided to hit the Frolic room for the sake of getting out of the house. Their just isn’t anything better than getting lit when your down and out. So I searched for a clean pair of pants on the floor, ironed out a dress shirt, and jumped into my black lizard skin Lucchese Cowboy boots. You know, I’m proud of those boots. I saved them from being tossed in the trash on one of my various handy man side jobs. Some rich dude client of mine threw those things out ‘cause he had nothing to wear with them. I took them home painted them black and polished the shit out of them. Those are some cool boots man. Anyways, I hopped on my motorcycle and set sail towards Hollywood. The summer’s night breeze never felt better.

A heavy moon, full of butter fat expectations, begged for my bark and howl as I hit the Hollywood exit off the 101 at a quarter to eleven. Traffic was jammed and parking is just impossible to find around that time. Once the Pantages Theater lets out though, at about 11pm, you can find a spot right in front of the Frolic room, but that’s just a little secret between you and me. I stumble up to the bar and Ruben, my bartender, already has a Budweiser and a 7up waiting for me. He only serves me a 7up when he thinks I’m lit and looking to sober up. I find a stool and sit down; the Beatles are playing on the jukebox, and a big Texan that goes by the name Tex pulls up to the bar next to me. It’s a hot night outside and the dolls are all dressed for it too. Steve, the door man, makes his rounds around the bar picking up stray bottles as the jukebox now plays a little Stevie Ray Vaughn. I finish up my first round just in time to see Walter, an annoying drunk who frequents the bar, stumble in with a young girl. They grab a stool, a couple over from me, and order up a Chelada and a few shots of whiskey, Black Velvet. After a few, Walter makes his way to the restroom and leaves his trophy doll sitting alone at the bar. (Walter, you know better than that) She gets up and moves over to the seat next to me and says, “Hi, you having fun?” I look over at her with my eyes at half mast and reply, “well, now I am” She asks,”why are you drinking alone?” I told her with a half hearted smile, “Sometimes life will make you do that doll.” We laughed and flirted the whole time Walter was in the restroom but instinct told me to stay away from this doll. I knew she was trouble when ol’ Walter got up to take another piss and she began to tell me all off her wonderful achievements. She started off with her class action lawsuit and the affair she had with her lawyer. Of course she made me promises not to tell Walter (wink-wink). She had also been on the cover of Lowrider magazine a few years back, two times, and she was in the process of writing a book. She just got divorced and she hated her ex, but at least she got the house he had bought down the street out of it, ‘cause you know he’s a real estate agent. She was very depressed and just looking to have a good time tonight. When Walter got up to have a smoke she slid over one last time and for some reason, actually, I knew the reason; the conversation escalated towards sex rather quickly and out of no where came, “So how many girls have you fucked in the last month? Being the cultured, intelligent, and fine gentleman that I am I responded with, “Sorry doll but I don’t kiss and tell and where the fuck did that question come from?" ”Yeah you’re probably a Virgin”, she replied. Not losing my cool, I told her, “I probably am doll”. “Well I’ve had sex with only one guy and he had a small dick so my shit is still tight” I laughed at the size of the balls on this broad, I knew what she was up to so I stumped her with, “Only one guy; you sound inexperienced and you’d probably be lame in bed.” She was quick to reply, “Oh no I’m crazy and freaky. Don’t underestimate me baby.” As Walter made his way back I smiled at her and then went outside for some fresh air.

Well her story was very heart braking and of course, it hit me right in the heart. For a minute there I thought she was after my Lucchese boots but I recognized her tricks and if I where a fool I would have fell for it. I’ve had enough conversations with bar hookers to fall for this one.

A bar hooker works the bars and clubs and starts conversations with loner boner dudes who are desperate for a woman. They dress a lot less conservative than most dolls of course, and usually roll alone. They will sit at the bar and wait for any guy to try and start a conversation with them. Sometimes, well, many times they will have to approach a guy themselves, due to the fact that most dudes don’t know how to approach a woman. It works to the hookers’ advantage though. You see this way they can target geeky suckers with low self esteem who haven’t been laid in ages and would pay hundreds of dollars just to smell a woman for the sake of saying that at least they smelled her. They then ask you if you would like to go back to her place for some drinks and kicks or maybe just step outside and into her Corolla for a nice “conversation”.

I kind of felt sorry for Walter. Did he have any idea or was he just naive? Oh well he looked happy and I’m not the type to ruin a good time. So I went back in, closed out my tap and decided to call it a night. Come to think of it, I don’t think I even had enough money in my bank account to play around with her plus I wasn’t about to fight poor Walter for her. I was better off going home.


I hit “Tacos el Halcon”, the taco lunch truck over on Slauson and Broadway, on my way home that night. You know they make some of the best tacos in Los Angeles at 2am. The tacos are drenched with hot sauce, the meat is tender, and they always grill the onions. I walked up and ordered the usual; tres tacos de asada y uno de al pastor. One of the chefs was dragging on a cigarette off to the side of the lunch truck as all the Reggeton boys and their dates began spilling out of their Nissan Sentra cars with expired plates and pep boys spinner hub caps. The cops made their rounds once again shining the light on the crowd and another Mexican beauty began hiking up her skirt and sucking on the straw of her medium size Horchata in hopes of making her knuckle head boyfriend jealous. The sexy simplicity of her tube top white dress accentuated the curves of her child bearing hips in a way that only a tube top dress can. Her faced looked like a Bratz doll and her eyes had that look of longing with a dash of desperation, for something, someone, or anything new to come her way. You see this town will drag you down with false expectations if you let it baby and the rats that sleep in the gutters, well; they just lick their lips at the thought of your life ending up crumbled up in a taco wrapper, just off to the side of Slauson blvd.

I got home close to 3am. I took off my clothes and turned on the AC at full blast. I lay in the dark as a neighbor’s car alarm blasted all chances of me falling asleep within the following 10 minutes. The dogs down the street began to bark and some annoyed lady screams out her window, “Turn that fucken alarm off!” I chuckle at her. The street light shined down through my window on an old unoccupied cobweb that decorated the upper Westside of my room as I began to fall asleep………..Fuck, I should have brought Walters’ hooker home.

-Red Rooster (2007)

Barstool Philosopher

This is my most recent sculpt entitled the barstool philosopher. Its a sort of follow up on my Last Call Piece. I decided to play a bit more with shapes and planes with this guy. I dig the way it came out, pretty close to my original concept sketch. I'm not sure if I will release a limited edition, like "Last Call". He will be cast in either resin and/or Hydrocal. I hope you guys dig the sculpt so far.

So I'm off to comic con this weekend. Ill be there on Friday only. Ill be handing out fliers as I walk around trying to promote this blog and my new site. Hope to see you guys there. Till next time...........

-The Red Rooster

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The Barstool Philosopher

The dim light of the bar hides her bite marks on my neck.
My lips are bruised, my shoulders are scratched and I got a knot on my forehead.
Ive got a slight headache from lack of sleep and my sunken eyes burn.
I take a draw from the cold bottle and place it over my knotted forehead as I think about her stupid dog figurine.

"You know that thing is worth over 200 dollars", she said. "...but I got it for 20 at a yard sale from some old lady who didn't know what she was selling."

"You got jacked", I replied.

Her eyes cringed and upper lip stiffened as she punched me on my chest.
I laughed at her sad attempt to hurt me.
I grabbed her slick black hair, pulled her head back and began to passionately kiss, suck, and bite her neck.
She bit my lips till they bled and scratched seven layers of skin off my back.
I'm not quite fond off violent sex, but when in Rome....

The beer bottles clank, ping, and crash all around me and my pint glass is due for a refill.
I signal the bartender and order me up another Guinness.
In a lit corner at the edge of the bar sits a bar stool philosopher looking for an audience.
I recognize him by his forced desperate awkward laugh.
Hes trying to make friends with anyone at the bar but its only a sad attempt to sell his pathetic life story to anyone dumb enough to listen.
He pulls up the stool next to me and begins his sad song.

"Yeah man, I work delivering beers and barely make enough money to make it. My kid is the brightest in his class and I'm going to do what ever it takes to keep him at a private school. public schools in LA are gone to shits. My Wife is threatening to divorce me but is waiting till she gets her fucken car paid off. I'm trying to fuck this bartender here but I don't want her to get attached. Yeah, I know what its like out there on the streets man, I grew up in Pasadena. All those white people hate Mexicans out there but I'm a Chicano and I don't give a fuck. Yeah, I work delivering beer and barely make enough money to make it....you know what I mean man?"

After three beers hes resolved his problems and feels the needs to give me advise.

"You know what man, your young you should save your money and buy a house. My cousin Chayo just bought her house in Riverside. She's remodeling it and then she's going to sell it. Who beat you up?"

"Some girl"

"Aww fuck that I would never let some bitch treat me like that. My wife tries to tell me what to do and I'm like fuck that. I never trust a woman. One time my homeboy Stephen took his son to the movies and when he came back his girl was fucking some black dude. Fuck that if I found my woman with some Negro Id kill them both. I never trust women. But for real man, I'm a nice guy. you know what they call me? Gentle Giant. Thats 'cause I'm big and look mean but I'm a good guy on the inside. You should go back to school and get an education. My brother Rickey got out of jail when he was 24, went back to school and now he owns his own body shop. Its all about making money and fucking bitches. Never get married, that shit just fucks you up. Hey, have you been checked? (for disease) Fuck that homeboy go get checked tomorrow you just never know who these bitches been fucking. I remember back in 92 when the Riots happened me and my homeboy Rigo came up on a Street Fighter II video arcade game and set it up in his grandmas house and charged all the little kids a quarter to play. You see I've always been about making money. Hey, you should go Holla' at that girl over there, she hot foo'. Yeah man, I deliver beer and barely make enough money to make it."

He finally gets too drunk and belligerent and ends up getting kicked out of the bar. The bartender tells me,

"You shouldn't let your friend drink too much".

"I have no Idea who that dude is"

"but you where talking to him for a long time"

"He was talking, I was drinking"

"So, who beat you up?"

"Some girl"

"Why?"

"Because I'm a sculptor and I barely make enough money to make it............."

-Red Rooster 2007

10 X 15 prints

"Cass" and "Chola with out a cause" 10x15 Prints
are now available
in the store section of my website

www.BewareTheRedRooster.com

All Prints are mat, Framed, and signed by yours truly.
Prints are limited to 100 pieces.

Frames measure 12 3/4"x 17 3/4"

On sale now!

Available at www.BewareTheRedRooster.com

Blue jeans in "A" minor

So I decided to tweek my style a bit. I hope you guys dig. This piece is made in chavant clay *medium* over plumbers pipe and aluminum foil. Its stands 19 1/2 inches and will be cast in Hydrocal. I will only make two copies of this doll and will strike the mold. Eventually she will be painted. At the moment I am working on getting all of the "last call" pieces ready for shipping so for all of you who have placed your order, your stuff should be ready to roll June 18th. I also have prints coming with in the next week so check back for updates. Thank you all for your support.
By the way I will have two of my sculptures featured in Alberto Ruiz's "Eye candy from strangers" book so go check out his site(over in my links section) for updates on that. This piece is a portrait of a sweet doll who brought stability to a turbulent night. Her name is Jessie Payo.

Blue jeans in "A" minor

Its 8:15am on Thursday morning and I can’t recall why work gave me the rest of the week off but I believe it had to do something with Christmas. I lay in bed staring at the wood panel ceiling decorating the converted one car garage which I rent for 320 a month. I can make out three faces in the wood grain, a water faucet, and a lamb chop. God, I’m hungry. I got 2 missed calls on my cell phone and a text message from some gal I lost interest in two weeks prior. One of the missed calls is Anita, a Filipino chick I met in Downey about a month ago. She was straight up from the Philippines, born and raised and still had an accent. What a cutie, almost worth pursuing into the abyss, but then again, a wise man once said, “…in the game of women you pay far too much for far too little”. At the moment the only woman worth pursuing is the one pushing a Ralph’s shopping cart filled with tamales at 8:30 in the morning. I get out of bed and throw on my peacoat and wait outside for the Tamalera to pass by. She’s running late. Its well past 8:30, and the morning is taking its sweet time to warm up. I finally hear the rickety racket of the shopping cart followed by her siren of a voice shouting, “Tamaleeeeeees, Taaaaaamales” I buy dos tamales de pollo y un champurrado for three dollars in coins. There’s almost 30 cents in pennies. I retreat within the compound of my fortress of solitude and ponder, over my tamales, what sweet adventures the night will bring.

My brother calls later that evening and invites me up to a show later that night. I dig in my pockets and pull out 37 dollars and 28 cents and tell him,
“I only got ten bucks, so drinks are on you tonight, what time do we roll?”.
He says, “9 o’clock”
Its 7:30 and I got no clean clothes. It will take me 20 minutes to drive down to visit my parents and kill two birds with one stone by washing at the Laundromat next to their place. It takes about 30 minutes to wash and 45 to dry. This gives me no time to waste. I hang up the phone with my bro and gather a few quarters and head to my parents place. I go thru and separate the whites and throw my boxers and socks in with the darks because after all, who cares if they bleed together and I wash my denim separate anyways. I play arcade games till the wash is done, throw all my rags into one big dryer, and head back to my parents house to shower. I’m on scheduled for once when things take a turn for the worse. Upon returning for my clothes, much too my dismay, I found the dryer empty. I ask around to see if anyone saw who might have “mistakenly” taken my clothes. Some lady comes up to me and tells me that a couple of bums who hangout near the liquor store trashcans came and took the clothes. She said they kind of looked suspicious at first but then she thought nothing of it when she noticed them folding the clothes carefully, those sons of bitches. I ran out and searched up and down the block for those bastards and all I found was their schizophrenic counterpart, a bum that goes by the name “El Guatemala”. I harassed him for a while but the fucker wouldn’t budge. I came close to swinging on him but my conscious wouldn’t forgive me….. My father on the other hand, once learning that el Guatemala’s friends stole my clothes, wasted no time in slugging the bastard till he fess’d up or threw up. I was hesitant to restrain my father from beating el Guatemala to a pulp but the neighbors started to come out and it wouldn’t be good for my dad’s rep.

I found a pair of jeans that I hadn’t worn since high school in an old drawer at my parent’s place. I sprayed them down with Fabreez to cover up the smell of mothballs and threw on one of my dads dress shirts. Those where some cool jeans I lost, they where just the right kind of hue of blue, you know what I mean? I had worn those things for a week straight just to get that color. My work shirts where gone too but I didn’t worry much about those. I had only paid 3 for $10 at the Paramount swap meet but those jeans man, they where something. I hope those bums pick up a rash from wearing my underwear, those sick fucks. I was still pissed and looking to let out the rest of my frustration on el Guatemala but I said fuck it, lets roll.

We stroll into the show at about quarter to ten and I feel like a throw rag. I order up a beer and slouch into my stool. The doll performing that night goes by the name of Jessie Payo. She came on, 3 beers into my self therapy session. She sat on stage, dwarfed by her guitar, with the elegance of a Victorian queen and looked as prominent as the Virgin Mary. I envy that guitar. Her broken nose adorns her smiling eyes and her face carries the smile that will end all wars. I allow her voice to reach the darkest corner of my soul and drive my demons out. How sweet a song becomes when you hear her sing it. Soon, her tunes vibrate the sweat off the walls in the joint and form a river that can only lead to nirvana. Help me, Jessie Payo help me forget about my faults and my mistakes which have come in the form of a deceiving women one too many times. Save me Jessie Payo, for your voice is the only thing that can sooth my soul tonight. Forgive me Jessie Payo, for having wasted such a sweet performance on a depression that was brought on by a lost pair of blue jeans.

The hangover greets me like a nine pound hammer dropping from a two story window. I decided to call Anita back but she wouldn’t answer. After 2 failed attempts over the course of the day I decided to not call her anymore and erased her number from my phone. She called me back later that night and upon recognizing her voice, I hung up.
-Red Rooster 2007

Last Call (redux)

I would like to officially announce the re-release of Last Call. A second edition of 25 pieces will be released June 18. Last Call stands 9 inches tall, cast in Resin, is fully hand painted and Fairly priced at $150.00 (trust me people I'm not making much profit) you can pre-order thru paypal starting may 22nd. e-mail xRedRoosterx@gmail.com for details

"Last Call"
The Idea for this sculpture came to me on one of those countless nights of drinking at a fine cultural establishment in Hollywood known as The Frolic Room.
Last call in Los Angeles/ California, is 1:45am and alcohol is no longer sold past 2am. I think that's to damn early. The amount of Vodka it takes to drown out my worries, sorrows, and nightmares is too much to consume by 2 am. Shoot, it takes me 2 hrs of straight drinking to muster up the courage to talk to a pretty doll and 3 hrs to drown off the pain of her rejection. Their just ain't enough drinking time in LA.

It was 1 am this particular evening and I had dropped far to much money on alcohol. I was a little bummed, I didn't get as far as I would have like to with a girl whose face resembled 2 miles of bad road. I had bought her 23 dollars worth of drinks and all I got was a senseless conversation, about paper cuts and ball bearings, and a, "Thanks for the drinks (sucker)". I started to worry about my overdrawn bank account and how I was going to make ends meet again, being that payday was 2 more weeks away. I slouched over the wood laminate bar of the Frolic room and ordered another Vodka tonic. While I waited for my drink I gazed around the bar and looked for another girl who was more far gone than I. It was then that I directed my attention to this old limey looking English fellow sitting at the end of the bar, drunk off his ass, and mumbling some shit to himself. He was probably trying to figure out how he was going to slash all our throats. Nonetheless, I almost felt pity for the guy. Sitting there, with his dress shirt buttoned down and looking like he just crawled out of the sewer. Probably anguishing over bigger problems than I. Then I realized he was wearing a pretty nice suit, a nice watch, and shiny shoes. So I figured, he probably made more money than I did and that he could actually afford to get drunk, so my pity quickly faded. It was 1:42am when I took a quick glance around for any action left unnoticed. The security guard made his rounds around the bar picking up half empty bottles of beer, stray empty glasses and abandoned spirits. I then looked back at the old limey and found his face expressing what I was feeling inside and probably what most of us at that bar where feeling inside come 1:42am; the dreaded, fast approach of Last Call.
-Red Rooster

Chola without a cause (painted)

So this is the finished piece of "Chola with out a cause a.k.a Rosi" Hope you guys dig it. You can search the archives for the original story. Once again I would like to thank Phil Holland for doing such an awesome job of photographing this piece.

Life and a Breakfast Burrito
The alarm clock awakens me rudely on Saturday morning. I crawl out of bed with my clothes still on, a hangover, and a napkin from a taco stand called "Tacos El Halcon". The previous night, I had gone bar hoping in Downey, trying to fill an emptiness left by an old rose who decided to bloom in another mans garden. I jump in the shower and brush my teeth. The rest of the house mates are still asleep, as any decent human being should be on a Saturday morning. I used to wake up and watch cartoons back in the Saturdays of my childhood. Later in my teens I used to wake up and go to yard sales with my brother. Today I wake up dizzy and cold and do handyman side jobs to make ends meet. My father always said, "You cant complain when there's work."

I gather my tool box and drill and proceed out the door. Today I'm lucky to be working for a pretty doll called Carla Behnam who lives in the Hollywood Hills. That woman, unknowingly, has gotten me out of so many binds that their is nothing I wouldn't do for her. I jump in the red Jeep I borrowed from my friend and head up Crenshaw, hang a left at Wilsher, then a right on Highland, and cut straight through Hollywood toward Universal City. I stop at a Jack in the Box and buy a meaty breakfast burrito. I opt out on buying the combo special 'cause I was back on the poor mans diet. I only got 6 bucks in my pocket and I'm hoping that 4 bucks of gas will get me back home just in case Miss Behnam decides to pay me with a check.

I chomp away at my stale ass under cooked Meaty Breakfast Burrito all the way up Highland ave. and ponder a question Ive have asked myself many times "Is it really worth it?" I drive and wonder what could have been if I chose to be a carpenter instead of a sculptor, like my dad wanted. I should have joined the carpenters local union 409, I hear they start you off at 20 to 25 bucks and hour, one could make a decent living doing that their whole life. Or maybe, I should have used my hook ups down at the docks and became a long shore men, I hear those dudes make major bucks unloading and loading crap into those big containers. Or maybe, consider getting into real estate, after all, ain't that where all the money is nowadays? Then once I'm "successful" I can go ahead and find me a good looking wife, a nice car, and a fancy house in Bixby Knolls. Maybe a family like the one from Beverly Hills 90210, with a bunch of spoiled brats, bitching about not being able to find their hair gel, while some kid in Pakistan makes soccer balls for 2 cents a day. Well fuck. Where did I go wrong? Why am I here, driving to a side job on a Saturday morning, while I could be watching cartoons? Why am I eating this shitty burrito, stressing over my overdue rent, my empty gas tank, and some doll who kicked me to the curve for not having a "successful" job? Why? WHY!?!?

Just then that gut wrenching pain that has kept me company on those dark nights, when my drunken sanity was questionable, reached out and punched me. That pain, that fire, that passion, that drug that has stripped me of the comfort of a warm room, a beautiful woman, 3 meals a day, and a decent nights sleep. This addiction I cant, and refuse, to live with out, gnaws and claws at my insides and reminds me why I haven't conformed to their way of living. Is it worth it? Every god damn minute. My eyes become focused back on the road of this damned forsaken filthy city that has never failed to leave me. I take a deep breath and fill my lungs with her sweet smog and stench. I man up to the road ahead, raise my head up high, and drop that 3rd gear into 2nd as I strut that 4 banger piece of shit jeep with pride. I look in the mirror and say the same words I told that bastard who's ass I beat outside of Ferns, for trying to tell me who I was, "I know who I am and I know where I'm from, and most importantly I know where I'm going, so get the fuck out of my way."
-Red Rooster 2007

"Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal." -Albert Camus

The Rebel

Her name was Sarah. A red headed beauty from Long Beach. I met her at a bar down on second street called the Belmont Station. It was a Thursday night and I was starting my weekend early. I was nineteen then, but according to the fake ID my brother made for me on photoshop, my name was Anuarth Batista, from El Monte, and my age was 22. That ID got me into many places back then: Mariposas in Long Beach, the Gig in Hollywood, the Silver Lounge in Bellflower, La Escondida bar in Compton, Las Violetas in Paramount. I finally got it taken away trying to get into Acapulcos in Downey. I herd they remodeled the place by the way.

Anyways, Sarah was a very proud girl who tried to stare me down this particular night. She shot me with those emerald green eyes from across the bar. I held her stare and squint my eyes like a cowboy in a shoot out at high noon. Finally, she budged and looked away with a smile. I waited a few beers before actually going over and talking to her,"whats happenin', my name is AB". She hailed from Dearborn, Michigan and was attending Long Beach State. I bought her an apple martini and told her that was the only drink Id buy her. My excuse was, "I don't like talking to drunks". In actuality, I don't mind talking to drunks, I find them very entertaining, Its just that you got to deny the woman something. That and I had already spent all my money down to the last piece of lint on baseball cards and bubble gum. When we danced she rubbed her body against mine and breathed hard against my neck. Her hands rubbed my back, hard, the way the Asian girls do down at the massage parlors. The brick walls of the Belmont station turned fiery red from the heat of both our bodies. I asked her for a smoke and we headed outside. I really don't smoke but the smoking patio was closer to my truck than the dance floor.

The sweet smell of a clove cigarette lingered over the smoking patio. It was a bit chilly that night and the nicotine from the cigarette made me tremble a bit. She puckered her lips around her cigarette and took a long slow draw. I could see her eyes staring back at me through the smoke of her cigarette, burning in bliss upon her lips. How I envied that cigarette. I held her stare till the smoke made my eyes water and in the back of my head amongst the tumbleweeds and cobwebs I could hear the howling voice of a wise man saying to me, "the red heads are crazy and wild to tame my friend, beware." So I proceeded with caution, "Its getting cold out here and this music is bunk. Let's go over to my truck and listen to somethin' else". She agreed and followed me. I fiddled with stations and lit another clove. She went on talking about her exams and mid terms as I sank into the truck seat and rolled with the vibrating effect of a couple of whiskey shots, a clove cigarette, and a blues version of "summertime" by Janis Joplin. I looked over at her, brushed my hand through her hair and and kissed her lips with a passion that can only be achieved after half a pint of whiskey. Her hot mouth sucked at mine to the point of hurting. I grabbed her hair and pulled her head back, kissed, bit, and sucked at her neck as I caressed her lower back with my other hand. She asked if we could go back to my place but after much reasoning and lying we decided to head back to hers.

Sarah rented a guest house up on Anaheim and Junipero. The house was at the very end of the property and far enough to have comfortable privacy. She told me,"We can be as loud as we want, no one can hear us", I said, "Cool, I always wanted to watch the Late Show at full volume. Whydon't you kick off your shoes doll and lay in bed with me". We kissed for what seem like hours, our passion more intense every minute. I could feel her half naked hips grind against my thigh and all she could do was squirm with delight as I kissed my way to them. Her soft pale skinglistened with the hot and steaming sweat that covered both of us. My hands slithered, groped and caressed every inch of her body. I laid over that doll, her red hair and green eyes burning them selves into my memory, and shared every inch of my soul with her. I ran my handsthru her hair, nibbled her ear and whispered, "I'm going to look for a little nook in a dark corner of hell to hide us in baby, and if they find us, the devil himself will blush 20 shades of red."

Six in the morning snuck in with a hangover and I had a bad taste in my mouth. Thank god it was only morning breath. I got up and showered, combed back my feathers, gargled some mouth wash, and brushed my teeth with my index finger. I got dressed while sitting on the edge of the bed near Sarah so as to wake her up. Ididn't want to leave with out saying good bye and thanks. Half asleep and half awake Sarah said to me, "Thank you for last night. You better call me later,Anuarth"....Oh shnaps!... I had forgotten completely that I had lied to this girl about my age, name, and well everything else. I looked over at her and with a straight face I said,"Of course I will, baby". That little nook in hell is going to be mighty lonely for a bastard like me.

The sun in Long Beach for some reason burned hotter that morning. The humidity from watered lawns collected behind my ears and the smell offreshly cut grass made me itch without even touching it. Some old lady's little hairy rat like bitch of a dog barked at me as I walked by and I knew why. That dog not only smelled the guilt it also smelled the sad stench of a dirty mutt. My truck windshield wiper greeted me with a parking ticket for parking in a residential only street and my cab still smelled of clove cigarettes from theprevious night. I didn't complain, I deserved worse. I started my truck, rolled down my windows and searched for a soul in the pair of eyes staring back at me from the rear view mirror. All I found was a wicked smile and a nose hair so long that it must have grown from all my dirty lies.

-Red Rooster 2007

Christinas red lips

If their is one thing I'm a sucker for, its a pair of blood red lips.

I recently showed this piece again at one of my shows. The title is
Christina's red lips. I really made this piece with no one in mind but
it recently reminded me of my old homecomming date, a pretty doll named Christina. This sculpture couldnt even begin to do her beauty justice. Man, I'll tell you, that girl looked as if God had made her out of beauty magazines.

I showed up to her house on the night of the dance in my Datsun
850 wagon. My buddies used to call it the Coffee maker, a shitty brown
wagon with wood paneling. I had spent the better part of that day cleaning
all the chicken shit off the back seat. That's right chicken shit. I
used to have a pet rooster that I used to cruise with and that ain't no
lie. I even waxed the damn thing, It was like polishing monkey shit. The damn radio barely worked and you could just make out the Creedence Clearwater tape my dad got stuck in it. When we got to the dance I parked pretty far because i didn't want any of my friends to see me roll up in the coffee maker. God bless that poor girl, I knew she was embarrassed as hell but never did she say anything bad about my wagon. at least not to my face.

Walking out of the dance we where greeted by a down pour of rain. The alignment on the coffee maker was off so the damn steering wheel was all over the place. I could have sworn I heard her praying a few times. I asked her If she wanted some Denny's but she said no thank you and opted for some Taco Bell. (People, I wish I could say I was making this shit up.) So I bought her a Chalupa and proceeded to drop her off. By the time I dropped her off, the rain had stopped. Still, She insisted I stay in the car and not walk her up to her front door, "I don't want you getting wet", is what she said. All I remember that night was seeing Christina's red lips and wanting to kiss them so badly.

A couple of weeks after the dance I talked to Christina
a couple of times. Once, when I got the pictures from the dance and the
second time was when I asked her to be my girl. That proved to be even more embarrassing than the homecoming dance. During lunch I strolled over to the bench where she sat with all her friends. I asked her to be my girl and
she declined by saying, "umm, I kinda, like someone else". I held back the tears like a man should, and gathered the remains of my pride into a Sparklets water paper cup and made my way back to my lunch bench. My buddy Andy was the first to notice my sulking and came over and said, "whats wrong foo'?" I looked up at him, my eyes holding back a river of tears, and the bastard started bustin' up. Of course I was startled and asked him, "what the hell you laughing at punk ass?" and he said, "dude you got a nugget the size of Texas hanging from your nose".........Damn.

So let that be a lesson to all of you. Never underestimate the bogger
inspection, especially when your going to ask a doll to be your girl.
This concludes my "So close, yet so far" story of my life.

-Red Rooster 2007

Abstract Head

Ill be part of the Venice contemporary spring invitational show come March 24th. Hope you can make it.www.thevenicecontemorary.com


I call this piece the abstract head. Once again I would like to thank my
good friend Phil Holland for doing such an awesome job of photographing
my sculptures.

I made this guy back in April of 2004 following my near "life" experience. I side swiped and flipped over a semi truck on the 105fwy while driving to work. My truck was completely totaled except for the 4x4 foot area in which I sat. All I walked away with was a bruised knee. Some people find Jesus after such events, I probably would have to if I didn't already know that Jesus is in jail. The reason I know of such info is because every homeboy I know that comes out of jail tells me that he found Jesus while he was locked up. (padump-dump-pishhh)

Instead of Jesus, I found my brains a bit rattled and an 8000 dollar check from the insurance company. So, what to do with an 8000 dollar check? The only reasonable thing to do, waste it on hookers, booze, and art materials. One of the positive things that came out of me running a muck around town with an 8000 dollar check was this abstract head that I sculpted over the course of three nights following the accident. Know that I think back to that split second of my life Ididn't have very much to say while I was staring down that semi. Some people say that their life flashes before their eyes or the words "dear lord", I believe all I said was "Awwwwwww Fuck!" And at the moment of impact I suppose my face did look a little like the Abstract head.

Joe

Photography by Phil Holland

Thank you all who came out to support at the Cannibal flower show last Saturday. For those who missed it, this was the piece on display. I have to give props to my boy Phil Holland
for doing such an awsome job of photographing this piece. Hopefully all of you can make it to the "Mixed Media" show Feb.17 at the Upstairs at the market Gallery Ill be presenting 6 pieces at that show.
See you there

Cass II

This is a remake of a previouse sculpture. I wasnt convinced that the first version captured the character of Cass that well.

This sculpture is based on the character Cass from the Bukowski short story entitled "The most beautiful woman in town". Cass is a woman who has lived life and has the scars to prove it. Read the story, that shit will make you cry (unless your me......Im a man, dont cry.)

Last but not least I'd like to dedicate this Sculpture to all the beautifull and real women currently in my life. Without your support, I wouldnt be able to wake up every day and continue my quest to please you all. Hugs and kisses to all you pretty dolls.
Love,
The Red Rooster

LA Mariachi

I was keeping it cheap and classy this particular evening. My buddy Fredo and I had been bouncin' from house party to house party, raiding the tables full of alcohol, getting drunk off other peoples buck. We do this on occasions when we don't have enough money to hit a bar. My goal that night was to glue my broken heart back together with various grades of alcohol following a drop in the stock value of one of my various emotional investments. I was dressed to the nines, sporting my torn jeans, leather jacket, and work boots that resembled the sad remains of a pair of burnt sausages on a discarded grill. We stumbled into a birthday party in the nice side of the city of Bell. I immediately felt the sting of their eyes burning even bigger holes in my already ragged jeans. I didn't mind the holes and neither did their free beer. With my lips locked around a bottle and a halfway grin, I toasted, "To the Birthday girl".

The party was a hand full of chicks lost in a cock forest, just like every other party that night. We tossed a few lines into the pond and managed to pull out a hand full of rejections. I mixed me up a glass of paint thinner and coke and settled in to the most comfortable place at the party, a dark corner. I was pulled out from another one of my pathetic drunken depressions that night by the sweetest thing I had ever heard. It was as if God himself pried the heavens open and spoke unto me saying,"Go on and get your rugged ass of that stool boy and listen here". The sweet sound came from the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen sing a mariachi tune. She led the all girl band with the authority of a General Washington leding his troops into Vietnam....

A pain stabbed at my heart as it does every time I see a girl who is to good for bum like me. Her eyes had a slight slant to them and her skin was as pure as carnation milk. Her golden brown hair was all done up like a gold tourniquet, highlighted by a single rose. Her elegant dress revealed a tight smoothness to her hips and the faint trace of muscle in her thighs. A beautiful creature with lips made out of strawberry cream and probably just as sweet. When a woman is that beautiful no amount of alcohol could drink her off your mind.

We hit the height of the transition ramp that connects the 105 and 110 freeway on the way home that night. From up their you can see straight across the south central LA ghettos all the way to downtown. All my beloved filthy streets full of broken hearts, crappy cars, and shattered dreams laid out before me. I gazed across the sprawled out bowels of Los Angeles in my drunken bliss and wondered what poor unlucky girl was going to answer my phone call at 3am,"Hey, momma, how you doin' ?"

The Boxer

This is a Saturday morning sketch.

So I went to this boxing match in Hollywood about 2 years ago. I had the pleasure of sitting ring side next to an old retired boxing champ from the 80's. His face looked like a Baseball mitt and his nose looked as if it had been chewed on by a mutt, but his wife was hot. He said something that night that I would never forget.

It was the second fight of the night and Action Jackson was getting beat to a pulp by Dirty Sanchez. Clearly, Jackson had no technique and was just rolling with the punches, running, and just trying to survive the fight. In the fourth round, of a 6 round fight, the old champ got up and started screaming at Jackson saying, "If your not going to fight do us all a favor and take a knee". I then heard him say to his wife,"He's too much of a pretty boy hes afraid to get hit, hes got other things on his mind besides winning". Jackson ended up losing the fight by majority decision, it was boring, it was a sad performance, and the worst fight of the night.

If your not going to fight do us all a favor and take a knee.