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.

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.