Lessons on the field of green felt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today would have been my Grandfather's birthday. I wrote this blog post about him and our shared birthdays back in 2004. It stands as one of my favorite stories and still makes me tear up.
The Year I Turned 12, Twice

Today, 6 years after first posting this tale, I still miss that old cuss. He never got to meet Tambo or Matisse. Of all my family, I think he would have been the only one who "got" what it is I have done with my life, my loves and my future.

Our family was not wealthy, in fact we were much the opposite. Of my grandfather I only have his hunting rifle, that deck of cards and my memories.

Monks +1 Jacket of Protection

“Surely that can’t be very comfortable” I commented as she pressed her glitter speckled face against the front of my leather jacket.
“Is this jacket thick?” She asked, looking up with eyes red from recent tears.
“Very”
“Thick enough to block out the rest of the world for a few minutes?”
“Definitely”, and with that I opened the jacket and pulled her into it, enveloping her small form in the folds of leather as I wrapped my arms around her as she fell into me, shoulders finally succumbing to exhausting, melting around me.

Ahh yes, this would be a salute to my most noble and well worn leather jacket that I found in a thrift shop a lifetime ago. One of a million of the mass produced “biker style” jackets worn by motorcyclists and would be bad boys since Marlin Brando strode out in one on the silver screen. The pockets in mine are shot, lining all but in tatters, but oh how it hugs my shoulders. Deep, canyon like creases lines the arms where it has formed to the shape of me. It’s obsidian black dye now worn pale in places. I’ve worn it nonstop since I found it, rain or shine. While it has served to protect my skin from the occasional motorcycle tumble, I think it has done more to shield the person I take in my arms when they are too scared to stand alone. It is just the right item to drape over the shoulders of a lover when they are caught in a sudden chill and the shoulder loops? Just the right height when a hand needs to cling to you in a quiet moment.

Sure, I suppose I should retire the garment, replace it with something a bit more high tech and better suited to protect me as I ride my motorcycles through these crowded Seattle streets, but nothing I have tried on fits the way this one does. Perhaps that is because none of them have a small, sad girl clinging to you, sharing a quiet moment of comfort while surrounded by the warm, soft embrace that is old, loved leather.

Yes, there are limits even to my vanity

Walked into the Abbey thing morning, my laptop bag over one shoulder and a strange package about the size of a shoe box under my arm. No sooner am I though the door and the minion are asking about the box. They are an observant bunch, my intrepid employees, but lets face it they spend more time around me than pretty much anyone else in my life so they can tell when something is up.
"What ever do you mean?" I ask in my best casual tone.
"You have a Styrofoam box under your arm and a shit eating grin on your face, that is what"
"Why this, " I say with a flourish and I remove the box, "the most awesome thing evar!"
They exchange odd looks to one another and wonder if this is the moment their boss has finally gone off the deep end.
"Um, boss.... that sorta looks like you?"
"That's cuz it IS me!" I exclaim with school boy glee.
"But that... that is a bobble head doll..."
"OF ME! Custom made, even got the eye color right!"
"..and where did you get this?"
"A gift from an intimate friend"
Again, more with the befuddled looks until one stated matter of factly, "Ya know, it does really look a lot like you."
"Especially when the head bobs, you look like that after too much coffee" said another
"Can it be our new boss?" Chimed in one
"No, lets build a shrine to it!"

I think ill call him mini-me on 12seconds.tv
I believe they said that flowers and a prayer box were needed in order for it to be perfect.

A post thought: When I first created this blog, some 5+ years ago I wanted a name that would capture the wonderfully strange and surprising direction my life had taken. Stealing the line from Hedwig and the Angry Inch, "...and the strangest things, seem suddenly routine" pretty much sums it up.

Happy Birthday to The Mom

Today is my amazing mother in law's birthday, aka "The Mom". Now I've blogged before about just how cool a gal she is, but for those of you joining in... The Mom is pretty damned fantastic on all counts. Super supportive of both her bio kids as well as those of us to be married into her family. For the last 25+ years she has been nothing short of tremendous in her support of me. While my family imploded with internal strife and drama, she reached her arms wide around me and shielded me from the storm. She has sat across the dinner table from my other partner Matisse and shared holiday cheer with my adoptive family. No mater the crazy turns my life has taken, she has been there for me and loved me with an unconditional love.

If this is not enough reason to wish this one of a kind woman a joyous and happy birthday, then consider this. She, and her partner, were the ones who gave me my very first book on rope bondage. The genesis for this company and all that I have created. In short, if you love the rope you have in your toybag from me, she is the one you have to thank for it.

And so, to The Mom. Let us raise our glasses and say cheers!
Love you.

Today is March 3. The third day of the third month. It is also the birthday of a childhood friend I once had. We were pals through grade school and jr high. Funny, while I can barley recall what he looked like I can’t forget this date. Then again, I remember this date more due to seeing a naked woman for the first time.

We were kids, maybe 9 or 10 years old? Like most boys growing up in the late 70’s we were obsessed with all things Star Wars and had only a vague inkling of our emerging sexuality. His family was transplants from California, part of a growing number of folks who were migrating to housing developments on what used to be open farmland on the outskirts of Spokane. Still sporting a semi permanent bronze shade and a sort of unidentifiable “coolness”, I would later speculate that his parents were probably swingers. Of course at the time I had no idea such things existed, just that his dad had flown jet liners and his mom was the coolest mom of the pack and the envy of all the other moms.

It was during a birthday sleep over, about a half dozen of us were camped out in the basement of their split level for the night, doing all the stupid and fun things that boys do when left un attended. Now I’m sure the perverts in reading this will immediately think something raunchy, but keep in mind we were just on the cusp of pubescence. I’m pretty sure we had an extended debate on who was cooler, Luke or Han. The next morning, being the farm kid I was, I was up with the dawn and ready to start my day. Unfortunately the rest of my city dwelling pals were still fast asleep so I figured I’d head upstairs and get a drink of water. Little did I know what was waiting for me.

Cresting the stairs from the basement and turning the corner, there she was. My best friend’s mom, naked. Upon seeing me, she spun around and looked at me with a start. “Oh, you are up already!” I just sorta stared and stammered. Now she could have shouted at me, or scolded me, but instead she turned her shoulders and stood there for a second, starting back at me. Funny how a tiny fraction of time can leave such an impression.

Sure I’d smuggled my fair share of playboys by then so I had a decent idea, in theory, what a naked woman looked like, but no real first hand experience. That was till that very moment. Frozen still where I stood, I took it all in. Soft shoulders meeting prominent collar bones leading to her breasts. Small, yet prominent. Her fading California tanned body, toned lines of stomach as they came down to her thick pubic mound, dark curls holding untold mysteries.

Un fucking forgettable, even to this day.

Then, in a flash the moment was over, she calmly informed me that I should go back downstairs now and not come up till she called the rest of us to breakfast. I never spoke of this to my friends, she and I never had any contact that would be considered even mildly inappropriate by even the most puritan standards in the 10 odd years that I knew their family. Just that one moment.

Funny, today I catch myself doing it from time to time. Catch myself staring at my lover’s naked form from across the room. Silent, head cocked to one side just taking it all in, the wonder of her form. The mysteries held between her thighs and the beauty of it all.

So yesterday I was forced to pack it in early, a very rare migraine put my ass down for the day. Not regularly prone to such things, when it happened I was casually mentioning to Tambo, "wow, my vision is going all wonky and it smells funny..." that was before the phalanx of dawrven miners took up residence in my sinuses and begun pounding away. Not fun, thankfully these things are pretty rare for me, but count me out for the day none the less.

Thankfully I happen to have some pretty effective, ahem, tools for dealing with such things. So there I was, stoned outta my ever loving mind, flat on my back, and bored to fucking tears. Being in pain is one thing, being numb and bored? I think that may suck worse. Anyways, too mentally incapacitated to operate anything more complex than my zipper and not tracking data too well I fell back into the warm, inviting arms of an old foe. The Maury Povitch show. Oh sweet Maury, your how your deeply creased face seems so inviting, yet somehow reminiscent of Emperor Palaptine in a powder blue sweater....

I once, a long time ago, suffered a powerful Maury addiction. Like a junkie twitching in a doorway, I needed my daily fix. Rest assured, over the course of my life I have ingested some pretty outrageous things, but this was far worse than any pharmacological or chemical compound, that man had me in his clutches. Why you ask? How could someone like me suffer such an affliction to a daytime TV show? I think this best explains it, a video clip taken one night early in the days of the Abbey. I'm ranting about why I loved to what the show so much.

I think you will agree, those were some dark and desperate days for your humble narrator. Fortunately with the help of my loving partners, an all consuming job and us not owning a TV for 3 years, I was finally able to rid that particular monkey from my back.

Today the pain in my melon seems to have vacated and the painkillers, having done their job, are no longer dulling my faculties and slowing my speech. No, this morning as I type this and sip my coffee, NPR is playing in the background talking about smart people things and in between edits I'll pop over to the BBC news to get their take on the world. Confident that my brain, now returned to me, no longer craves the sugar fix that is Maury.... for now.

But like any addiction, you are never truly healed.

That’s Mr. Dork To You…


So last night as I was gearing up to throw a scene for a patron and taking one last look in the mirror to make sure my “uniform” was right. Knee high motorcycle boots, polished to a mirror gloss? Check. Skin tight faded jeans? Check. Studded belt, freshly sharpened Kershaw knife, fingerless gloves tucked in back pocket? Check, check and check. Time to engage “bad ass” mode and thrash some sweet girl.

Of course it is hard to be fully serious when delivering a scene while wearing a shirt that boldly proclaims “Boy Sluts of America!”

Yeah, for as much as I love to play the big, bad wolf when I play truth is that deep down inside I’m a serious dork. Don’t believe me? Let me see… I’m obsessed with the Sgt Pepper’s album, like to the point I can point out all the bands that have tried to re-create the damn thing. (Panic at the Disco, anyone?)

Still don’t believe me?

Ok, up till I was probably in the 1st or 2nd grade I could not for the life of me figure out how to put my shoes on the proper feet. I blame my mom for making me wear hippy shoes as a child, but I always seemed to get the left shoe on the right and vice versa. Not wanting to think her child was “special” and march me off to the short bus, my enterprising mother came up with a rather brilliant idea to fix the problem. She took a fat red magic marker and drew a set of lips on inside edge of each shoe. When the lips matched up and my shoes were kissing each other, I knew I had it right.

Actually kinda pretty brilliant in hindsight?

So yes, while I delight in squaring my shoulders up and ripping into the eager flesh of pretty girls with sadistic delight…. Deep down I’m still that toe headed kid in tough skin jeans and the kissing sneakers.

While I finish packing and getting ready to head out to the middle of nowhere, check this out...

Lemme let you in on a little secret, anyone who tells you that they are a "fine art photographer" is just another guy with a camera who likes to take photos of naked people. Back when I fancied myself as one I had a whole stable of friends from the swinger world who were all more than happy to strip at a moments notice and prance around in front of my lens. Of course they were also happy to form huge puppy piles of naked bodies on my studio couch while waiting for me to setup the next shot. This always made for some interesting impromptu shots, like this one. The plan was to drag down a bunch of them during one of the long, 3 day parties at the local swing club, on a Saturday and shoot some group stuff shots. At the end of a long shooting day, they were not quite ready to put their clothes back on so we set the camera out in the parking lot and took this shot. No, contrary to what you might think this is not a composite. There I sat on my studio steps smoking a blunt while a half dozen naked sex fanatics mugged for the camera behind me. The planned images did not turn out as interesting as I had hoped, but the random last shot of the day makes for the perfect self portrait of Monk, circa the summer of 2002...

It was 20 years ago today, Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play...


Hard to believe it, 20 years ago, a mere 10 days after my 18th birthday, this picture was taken. Tambo and I were married on this day, in 1988. As you can tell from my mullet and fashion choices, we were very much children of the 80's too. And children we were, so young and baby faced.. so full of hope and wonder at what would come next. Hard to imagine that those two kids would one day grow up to be us, or that we were once them. A lot has happened in the past two decades, so many changes and through it all we managed to stay together and more importantly stay in love and happy together.

What is our secret you ask? I wish I could give you a magic bullet for long term happiness, but when asked we tend to look at each other and sorta shrug and say "I dunno?" Call it equal parts luck, tenacity and the understanding that no matter how much we change and evolve as the years go by that in the end, she is my closest friend, ally and confidant. That no mater what the days may bring, we know that when the chips are down we can always count on the other.

So tomorrow is a very big day for Tambo and I. Now while I spend some time and creative energy writing about why tomorrow is so cool I should give you some backstory. This post is one of my all time favorites, the tale of how I met and started dating my dearest, most awesome wife. Originally Posted Monday, April 26 2004

Chapter 27: The tale of how I met my wife.

It never seems to fail. Once I get talking to someone for awhile, they always ask the same question.
“So, how long have you and your wife been together?”
To which I reply casually, “oh about 20 years now”
This is usually met with a stunned pause, a few blinks and disbelief.
“No way, you’re like what… 30? 35? What did you do meet in Jr. High?!”
“33 actually and no we met when I was a freshman in high school”

That is right dear readers. I met her when I was a nerdy young freshman, while riding the school bus no less. Ahh, the school bus, or as we used to call it, “The Looser Cruiser”, that dull yellow tool of social order. You remember the rules, stoners sat in the way back cool kids sat middle while the nerds sat in the very front. Your whole social standing was determined by how far back from the driver you sat. Oh and if you got to sit in that extra narrow seat, WAY in the back, you know the one I’m talking about, then you were the most bad ass of them all.

Me? Being the drama nerd that I was, I sat somewhere between the exchange students and the kid who wore the helmet.

One day as I sat on the bus, reading the graffiti on the back of the seat and wondering what halfway house the driver escaped from, she climbed up the bus’s stairs.

Sure I could say something about how the clouds opened up and a singe ray of golden sunlight poured down on her and how a chorus of angels began to sing…or how my jeans became suddenly very tight in the crotch. Simply put, she was amazing. Brilliant, talented and oh my god so beautiful the kind of girl that yearbooks name “most talented” or “Most likely to succeed”. I had seen her before. She was involved in everything, music mostly but she also did honors this and advanced placement that. Rumor had it that she was hand picked to play pro for the symphony next year.

Along with the usual school books and bags, she also lugged her cello. Now for those of you who don’t know it, a cello case is roughly the same size as a small person. Not exactly something that will fit neatly into the overhead compartment or under a seat. Unable to share a seat, she scanned the bus for an open spot for her and her large burden.

As destiny would have it, the seat in front of me was vacant.

Too awe struck to speak; I just sat there and admired her. For a girl so talented and so with it, she gave off an air of sweetness. Un-phased by the trends of the day, she had her own style. Part geek, part art chick yet all the time very centered and very real. As her stop came I managed an awkward “bye”, to which she smiled the kind of smile so warm you wish that you could bask in it like a cat on a summer day. I was smitten.

But how was I, a lowly freshman, ever going to have a chance with such a girl? I needed a plan.

I knew that she only rode the bus home from school, never to school. I knew that she had to take her cello home when ever she did ride the bus. I knew that due to the instrument’s size, she could not share a seat with anyone and had to sit in an open spot. And so I hatched my plan.

Everyday after the final bell rung, I raced down to the busses carry out my plan. Like a grand chess master laying out his pieces, I found the sweet spot. That seat not too far from the front yet always guaranteed to have an open seat in front or behind me. She would have to sit next to me again.

I did this for an entire school year.

It did not always work, some days she stayed late, other days she would find a different spot. But when it did work, oh my, what a great bus ride that was. We started with small talk, compared notes about the play we were both in (her in the orchestra and me in the chorus line), Monty Python, Mtv and so on. Eventually I did not have to dash to find the sweet spot. If she beat me to the bus, I would find her in our usual spot smiling and waiting for me.

It took me another year to build up the courage to ask her on a date, but that is another story.


After nearly 20 years her smile still makes me weak.

I've been mining my old photography archives and sharing some of the memorable ones as of late. Here is another, circa 2002

This image is why there is a TwistedMonk.Com

Back in the dark old days, those early days of digital photography when I made my first tentative steps away from my trusty film camera to the first clunky digital SLR cameras, printing was the bane of my existence. Getting good, rich black and white images from digital prints was nearly impossible. Most of us sent our images away to labs only to get images back weeks later that looked nothing like the images we had in our monitor's eye. Rich, velvety blacks were replaced by sickly greenish tones due to incompatible color maps and inconsistent color correction tools.

Out of frustration, and that I was egotistical enough to believe that if it was not in black and white it was not "art" photography. "Color is for holiday snapshots, not art", was what I told myself. Pardon me while I roll my eyes at myself. Anyways, I began experimenting with sepia tones and color replacement. My goal was to imitate the hand painted French post cards from the turn of the last century.

This image was my most striking and successful from that period. One of those magnificent flukes where you end up capturing an image that was unplanned and no matter how hard you attempt you can never re-create. It also inspired me to look for other things that I could photograph and do this process on. What about rope bondage? Having recently been given Midori's ground breaking book, The Seductive Art of Japanese Rope Bondage, by my mother in law I thought to myself. "Hmm, what if I took a photo of a girl tied up in colored rope?" Looking online for colored bondage rope found me a few sites, nothing interesting and nothing in my then limited budget.

Flipping through Midori's book I found her recipe for finishing hemp rope. I ordered a small spool from a local hippy store, cooked up a batch and tossed in a spare packet of RIT Purple dye that I had laying about from another project. Lo and behold, royal purple hemp rope.

The first of it's kind and little did I know then that it would be the first of many, many more batches of rope.

And so gentle reader, if you happen to have a hunk of TwistedMonk rope in your toy bag that you are fond of, raise it in salute to this image.

The one that started it all.

Oh man, talk about a mind bender....

Yesterday I was asked if I would donate a print of one of my more "infamous" pieces from back when I fancied myself a "fine art photographer" (more on that later in the week). As I went through my archive DVDs I was really floored by both the amount of images I had amassed as well as the memories they held.

Since my birthday is coming up and, according to Alex this is my "Birthday Week" and I can do anything I want, I'm going to subject you to some of my artwork. This stuff predates the blog, pre dates the rope company and in many cases predates my exploration into kink (or in the case of some of the images, my fumbling steps exploring my kinky side).

But first, behold. Monk and Tambo circa 2001. This was shot while on a motorcycle trip we took just after my 31st birthday. This would be me at my heaviest and most unhealthy, 270 pounds, working for a major aerospace and defense firm, making mad cash and sporting a pretty hefty drinking and drug habit. Ironically, this was also when I was probably my closest to my biological family.



This image gives me chills and is a long, long way from this image. Taken by my favorite photographer in the world, Michele Serchuk, last April.


Me, at about 195 pounds, 14% body fat, diet and gym fanatic, successful sex business owner and 3 years since being disowned by my two greatest mentor figures (my Father and elder brother) for being a "degenerate pervert" .

Is there a moral to this story? Something to inspire and inform? A lesson to be learned? Not sure yet as I am still living the story and trying to figure it out myself.

If I have to close with a moral it would be this. To quote the bard, "To thine own self, be true"

OK, enough navel gazing! Tomorrow, the image that started it all.

A confession, of sorts

I let slip today to a friend that while I proudly have numerous fetishes (and am discovering new ones about myself everyday) I happen to have a major weakness for 70’s porn. Growing up, my earliest memories were of sneaking into my grandfather’s shop and extracting from their hiding place his stack of glossy magazines from the early 70’s. Buxom blondes with wide, curving hips, blue eye shadow, decked out in matching garters and kerchief and of course a rich, supple mound of hair between their legs. Images that would leave a lasting imprint as I thumbed through the pages, shot after shot of spread, seductive and all natural women stirring my young imagination and libido.

To this day, ask me who the sexiest woman in porn is and I would say with out a pause, Annette Haven when she did Barbara Broadcast.

While I enjoy modern porn and am a happy consumer (and producer) of SM porn, I still have a fondness for the old stuff. Maybe it is less about the era and more to do with the images. Yes, the pubic hair has much to do with the images, but it is only a part of the whole feel of the time. Women with real curves and real bodies just seem more genuine to me, more honest, and more along the lines of what I would want to find in my bed. The current trend towards anorexic girls with fake tans and boobs bigger than my head really leave me cold.

Nope, I’d rather see the girl next door, flaws and hips and hair. Now if she put on some blue eye shadow and donned a pair of roller skates? Bonus!

The day I met Boris.

This morning, as I fired up the cantankerous, vintage Russian motorcycle I call “Boris”*, it occurred to me that I have yet to tell the tale of how I came to be the owner of a big, black side car equipped motorcycle.

It was the dawn of the new millennium and I, like most of my tech savvy peers, were making way too much money in this thing they dubbed, “the digital economy”. Printing money from thin air, if you could spell HTML some high tech start up would hire you, offer you an outrageous salary and promise you stock options, riches like you would not believe. Sites (many now long dead) were turning twenty-somethings into millionaires overnight and in the middle of all this madness, your humble narrator was smack dab in the middle and about to turn the bit THREE OH.

I figured I would reward myself, most of my friends at the time were buying sailboats, luxury SUVs and townhouses downtown, so why not? I’ve always wanted a BIG Harley as long as I can remember. Something about those big, black beasts that makes my spine tingle. I figured I deserved it. Up to this point, Tambo and I had always lived simply, still in that “starving college student” mindset, we shied away from converting our new found, post college wealth into big cars and such, opting rather to stash it away in case of a rainy day.

So after a quick call to our bank, an overly enthusiastic banker handed me a letter that said, in effect, “This man can write a check for any motorcycle he wants up to 25K and we guarantee that it will be good” After doing some research, I knew just what I wanted. Make, model, and color… this bad boy was not gonna be cheap either. One Friday, a week before my birthday, Tambo and I escaped work early and went done to the local dealership and were promptly ignored.

Yep, there we stood, with letter of guaranteed funds in hand and we could not get the time of day from any of the staff. After nearly accosting a sales person with threats of bodily harm, I explained what I was looking for and was told, get this, “sorry you can’t have that” Jaws agape, we stared at this man as he calmly explained that no, IF we wanted to drop over 20K today, we would have to pick a model from what they have enroute from the factory, that is IF there were any we liked and MAYBE we would get said substitute bike by Christmas.

I don’t know about the rest of you, but regardless of how much money a person spends, customer service goes a long way and if that somebody is about to drop tens of thousands of dollars, said customer service better damn well not include the word “no”

Disgusted, we left the dealership never to return. “I wanna ride a motorcycle, not a bandwagon” I told them as I left. Tambo, the ever calm one, asked me “well, are there any other makes you had your eye on?”
Well… there are these crazy retro bikes made in Russia that come with sidecars…

A few calls later and we had a date to go try one out. The nearest dealership was almost 2 hours drive away so Tambo and I made a day of it. Packed our riding gear up and headed out to what turned out to be a converted barn on the edge of where urban sprawl met farmland. The dealer? A smiling old guy who had not one, not two but three bikes sitting, warmed up and waiting for me. I’ve ridden sidecar bikes before so after a quick lesson on some of the specifics of these models, Tambo and I piled into one and took off in the direction he recommended.

“Lots of pretty pastures out that way..” he waved.

The bike did not roar and throb, rather it sounded like a rather large sewing machine as we hummed along the country road. Sure it was black and had some cool retro chrome, it was far from a big beast of a machine. That and there was this sound I kept hearing as we passed bemused looking cattle grazing in the sun. It was the sound of laughter. Tambo and I were laughing like a couple of giddy school kids as we roared down the open road together. Pulling over and removing our helmets we both had what must have been the biggest, goofiest grins on our faces.

I wanted one, but with a few additions. Upon returning, said requested additions were met with “sure, no problem. How does next week work for you?” and a price tag that was shockingly less than I was expecting to pay.

Next week, being my birthday was met with some technical crisis that forced both Tambo and I to log unimaginable hours at work. Not only would it look like I would be forced to work on my birthday, but I would not be getting to make the trip out to the dealership that week to pick-up my shiny new bike. “Not a problem” said the dealer, and what do you think he did? He puts the bike on a truck, makes the 2 hour trek and delivered the bike to my office on my birthday.

Today, Boris sits just outside where I type this. The years, they have started to take their toll on the old boy. His chrome is not so shiny and the tell tale spots of rust are beginning to show, but I still get that stupid grin every time I throw a leg over and fire up the old beast.

That cantankerous old sob still makes Tambo and I laugh like school kids every time.

*In Russia it is customary to name vehicles; ships etc with masculine identities, as opposed to the west were we tend to refer to them in the feminine form. The name “Boris” came to me because in my mind the bike would talk like a rotund cab driver, jovial but nobody’s fool. “Boris have one speed, Boris’ speed. If Boris want to go up hill fast, we go fast but don’t push it babushka”

My first time

Music plays a huge part in the day to day ebb and flow of life at the Abbey. Finding the right mix of tunes that will keep the crew motivated as well as not cause a riot can be challenging at times. Thankfully we have a pretty vast collection of music to draw from and everyone gets to have a say in what is played through out the course of the day. Sometimes that say is something along the lines of, “WTF?!” but most of the time, especially when we break out the older rock, it is “Oh man, I remember the first time I ever heard this song…”

The other day, as we rocked out The Cars, it was my turn to tell the “my first time” story.

See my dad worked in the insurance industry and had this skill for getting cars that, while they had been in an accident and were technically “un-salvageable”, however an enterprising sort (my dad) with a come along, a few strategically located tree and some creative use of a two by four could straighten the frame and make said “total loss” into “great for first time driver”. That is how my brother got his 67 Dodge Dart. At 17 he was in need of a good car to get him from the farm to his various school related responsibilities and being a pretty solid hunk of Detroit steel it should keep him out of most trouble. Most, this is MY brother we are talking about, but I digress. What is the first thing he puts in his new chariot? Why a brand spanking new 8-track tape player. Did I mention this was the late 70’s? Anyways, stealing the cabinet speakers from an old stereo found at good will, he wedged them ,faux wooden cases and all, into the back windows and managed to get a pretty good sound, that is I think it was the bass and not the re-bent frame slamming against the chassis as he thundered down the back country roads outside of rural Spokane listening to The Cars doing “Let the Good Times Roll”.

Back then seat belts were a sort of after thought, a novelty item like a hula girl air freshener or fuzzy dice. Besides, seat belts in the back seat would get in the way of what a back seat was designed for, a mobile bedroom for horny teenagers… and where your screaming, terrified younger brother would clutch madly at any available handhold as he slid about on the slippery vinyl bench seat all the while said older brother pressed one foot down on the gas, had one knee pressed against the steering wheel for control, arms flailing in time to the drum solo and doing his best to not hit any stray livestock that might happen onto the road.

Bits and Pieces of History

I sometimes get grief from folks because I give away bits of my history. Little mementos given to customers and fans, perhaps a bit of rope from my personal kit or sometimes more, all depends. Folks tell me that I should hold onto them, hoard them away so that one day I’ll have them to remember this wild ride called my life. The thing is, it seems like such a waste to hold onto stuff in hopes that someday, in the distant future, I’ll want to remember. Rather, it makes more sense to me to share the joy, why hold onto something for a someday when someone can take that thing and enjoy it now?

So on that thought, I’m opening up my personal treasure trove and offering some cool pieces of TwistedMonk history for auction so that they can find a good home.

This is a first generation twistedmonk.com “Trust Me” style t-shirt. Only a handful of these were made in 2004 for Folsom in white and the rest have been lost to the sands of time. This one was found in a crate and is, to our knowledge, the last of its kind. We only did one run of white, “Trust Me” shirts for our first adventure at Folsom St. Less than a dozen of these shirts were made. It is a 2XL so it would make some happy rope slut a nice night shirt.

Speaking of our first trip to Folsom. I had a custom opera jacket made for me for the event. A lovely, flowing garment made from a wicked black with silver/gray skulls woven into the print. Sadly it was made for me when I as about 40+ pounds heavier than I am today and my personal styles have moved from the long jacket to more minimalist designs. You can see a shot of me in it here. I loved this coat, loved the way it flowed when I tied and the way it looks. A real show stopper.

Speaking of my “long flowing coat phase” I have another opera jacket up for auction too. Not a custom job, but sexy none the less.

With any luck, if these are well received, I'll pull more goodies out of the archives and share them with you. Makes me smile, the thought of someone being exited about getting a piece of my history and making it part of theirs.

Greatest Hits Album?

I always cringe when a band I like puts out a “greatest hits” collection. It seems to me like they lost their cultural significance and are now relying on the strength of their past work to pay the rent. Of course there are artists, like David Bowie for example, whose body of work is so large that they regularly put out collections as a way of book marking the various chapters in their long career. So what the hell does this have to do with blogging? Well after nearly 3.5 years of writing here, this blog has grown into quite an intimidating collection of content. Over the years, as I have journaled the ups and downs of this non-traditional path that I have chosen, I never quite imagined that this would have the following or the impact that it has. While I’m not about to compare myself to some of the really great bloggers out there, I am very proud of this journal and am delighted that so many of you have enjoyed reading along every day.

The problem is this, there is just so much content. I’ve been told by new readers that while they love the blog, there is so much back-story that shy of taking a few days off and reading all 900 odd posts to get caught up. Daunted by this, they do not return often and never become a regular reader and commenter. It has been suggested that I compile a “greatest posts” list of my best works and add it to the sidebar of the blog so that new, casual readers can get to the really good stuff with out having to wade through endless posts about caffeine and sore hands.

I have begun a list of my favorite posts, but as any artist will tell you, it is hard to objectively judge your own work. So this is where I turn to you, loyal reader. I figure that if you are reading this on the Saturday after thanksgiving that you are the ones who have been with me the longest and know this body of work the best. It is your opinion that I seek.
Here is my jumping off point, my personal favorite posts:
04/26/04 How I Met My Wife
05/10/04 The Tale of Wilbur The Death Pig
06/06/05 My First Date With Dancer (Matisse)
07/27/04 The Opening Day as an Armored Actor
08/27/04 The Closing Day
08/10/04 The Year I Turned 12, Twice
10/07/04 Traveling with out Moving
02/09/05 The Demise of the Swedish Chef Hat
02/01/05 HardWired
02/02/05 My Libido Demands It
05/09/05 The Unused Toy
06/06/05 Beware My Resplendent Topping Panties!
07/05/05 Liar!
08/03/05 Night Ride
10/05/05 The Coolest Moment of Folsom '05
10/24/05 The Lamest Thing We Saw at Folsom '05
10/18/05 The Bird in the Cage
11/02/05 Mementos on My Key Ring
12/19/05 Recomendations
12/09/05 One Scene, Three Perspectives
02/16/06 Delightfully Devious
03/28/06 Godzilla 1, Tokyo 0
04/06/27 Not Going to be My Day
05/23/06 The Exploding PBJ
05/09/06 The Sweaty Lesbian Fuck-Ball
06/21/06 The Boyscout Uniform
06/08/06 Welcome to the Worst Day of My Life
08/03/06 What Happend to All My Rope? (pt3)
09/08/06 My Afternoon with Violet Blue
10/15/06 Calls to the Abbey
11/06/06 John Tesh is the Erection Killer
12/24/06 A pot of Ale and Saftey
01/10/07 The Gun I Tried to Kill Myself With
02/28/07 Boston Bob
03/07/07 The Big Ass Ball Hook
05/08/07 How to Not (Emotionally) Slam Into the Guardrail
05/11/07 Alas Poor Yorick, I Knew Him Well
06/28/07 The Pancake-o-Meter
09/21/07 Back in the Saddle

See why I am asking for your help? Just compling the list has filled me with all manner of warm memories, laughs and cringes. So please, if you will, vote for your favorites as feel free to nominate your picks as well.

Folsom St. isn’t that big after all.

Arrive early enough and you can walk the fair in comfort. Easily perusing the wares with out the constant press and jostle of the larger (and substantially drunker) crowds that seem to plague the event near it’s final hours. Seemed like we could not go about half a block with out someone calling out “Hey Monk!” and catching our attention. Many hugs and hellos were to be had with folks I have not seen in years, as well as a ton of folks from home. This year everyone from Seattle seemed to make the trek down to the event.

Near the end of the day, just after I had finished doing a bit of street bondage on a charismatic little cutie, a voice from the past called out my name. Now I must confess that I suck at recalling names. The voice was attached to a face that the last time I saw, she was half naked tied to a pole watching Matisse and I torment her teddy bear.

Who remembers “The Weakest Kink”?, a gag MM and I did like… 3 maybe 4 years ago? We were both going to a leather event and made up a contest to find someone to bottom to us. We had 4 willing contestants and every week we would issue challenges and vote one out of the dungeon. Really fun stuff, well at least for us. Anyway, the winner was a total sweetheart of a girl named Krystal. She jumped through every wacky, kinky hoop our deviant brains could devise and came out on top. While at the event, she decided to dress the “little schoolgirl” fetish, you know plaid skirts and pig tails, and sport a teddy bear. For whatever reason, we pounced on said bear and did all manner of terrible things to it while this poor girl was tied up and bottoming to us.

Fast forward 4 year. Here she is, just as pretty (if not more actually) and smiling that same smile that made us just want to rip into her sweet flesh like a couple of jackals. In her hands, yep the teddy bear. Did I mention that the bear was still tied up in the same rope? Seems the bear came all the way to Folsom in hopes of seeing us and wanted to kiss my new boots.


I was happy to oblige what had to be the most hard core bondage bear ever. 4 years in the same hogtie and no complaints? Wow, that is one serious rope slut.

In all seriousness, it is pretty fucking amazing and humbling to me that someone would hang onto a souvenir like this. That bottoming to us was such a memorable experience that they would seek us out 4 years later to not only say thank you but also show off said souvenir. I suppose I could should be jaded and cynical by now, after all the stuff that has transpired in the years since I started this whole rope adventure, but when presented with stuff like this, all I seem to be able to do is sorta blush and keep saying, “damn, that is so cool! Thank you!”

Tambo and Monk’s first dinner date

I’m cooking a surprise dinner for Tambo right now and while the salmon grills I’m reminded of a really awful story. Well not awful, more embarrassing really. So way back in the very, very early days of Tambo and my dating adventure, we are talking just say of the Mesozoic era here kids, I invited her over for “3 course meal prepared by me”. Now mind you, Tambo and I stared dating when I was fourteen and I really did not know my way around the kitchen all that well. Sure, I could make one hell of a pancake but I had yet to realize the full potential of pancakes… but I digress.

So on the appointed night, I set the dining room table with my mom’s best china. She arrived right on time and I ushered her into the candle lit dining room. Blindfolded, she sat waiting for the surprise meal that I had prepared in her honor. The surprise being that the meal was in fact a pair of hungry man TV dinners. Did I mention that my sense of humor back in those days was a bit, shall we say unrefined? Yes, it did occur to me, just as I was about to remove her blindfold and reveal the steaming aluminum tray of pre-made Salisbury steak that perhaps she might not think this as funny as I.

On the contrary, she let out one of her trademark squeals of laughter and announced, “Dude! I have not had one of these in years! My mom used to make them for me all the time!”

Disaster averted and proof once again that my wife is, in fact, the coolest girl in the world.