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