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