It dawned on me this morning as I was shaving at the gym some things are too cool to be lost to the sands of time and the march of technology. The sound a straight razor makes as it slides, blade bright and wet, across skin. The sense of satisfaction as my motorcycle roars to life when I use the old school kick starter. The joy in mixing a cocktail that has been forgotten, tasting the pleasure of using just the right, hard to find ingredients as opposed to taking the easy route and opting for something premixed or "simple"

Funny, I'm all for technology and progress. Hell, I'm doing this update via my phone. A phone that is packing more tech in its tiny plastic shell than we used to land on the moon.

The faster our lives become and more prepackaged life gets, the more we need to slow down, embrace lost things and enjoy the retro.

Let's face it, things are "classic" for a reason.

My latest fantasy

I blame Matisse’s mother for this post.

It all started innocently enough. She, like most moms, wanted to include me as part of her Christmas. What to give the guy your daughter calls her “non-domestic partner” (or was that “non domesticated”?) Well knowing my penchant for motorcycles, or more my talent for falling off of them, and that anyone who dates her book crazy daughter must also enjoy them, or fake it very well, she sent me this book.



So, what the hell does book about motorcycle touring by an old guy have to do with Monk’s fantasy life?

Lots actually.

For anyone who has spent a long summer afternoon exploring the road less traveled in the saddle of a motorcycle knows, there is no better way to tour. This author captures the feeling perfectly, in another life he would be writing blog about his adventures on remote, winding roads and his love affair with the various machines that transport him to such places. This, this has always resonated with me. The desire to hop on my bike, loaded up with just enough to keep me from dying of exposure, and picking a direction. Having long traded out the “rocket sled” fast bikes of my youth for a bike that tops out at 55mph and can be rebuilt roadside with a pair of pliers and stout rock, I’ve taken to the back roads often over the years.

Now perhaps it is reading this collection of tales or perhaps it is that as the temperature is finally reaching a point where I can ride and not worry about my fingers going numb on the controls, but oh that spark of wanderlust is there. Not just to take my vintage Ural, Boris, and tear off into the local countryside. Nope, that lust has taken a turn for the exotic.

To throw a leg over one of Boris’ distant cousins* and roar along the Great Wall, or perhaps the Silk Road or across the remains of some former Eastern Block countryside. To climb off, dusty and sore, in the town square of some unpronounceable village and wander into the closest bar for a much deserved drink of whatever the locals are enjoying.

Yeah, that is my new fantasy. What can I say, I'm kinky like that.


*The Ural motorcycle is based off the BMW boxer twin engine. Considered by most to be the most popular motorcycle engine every designed with an estimated 3.5 million of them on the planet between the original BMW and other countless “clones” produced by the USSR, China and others over the course of the cold war.

Who needs to run away and join the circus when you got your own big top?!

I welcomed the rain with relish this morning as I made my way into the shop, thrilled at the prospect of getting my hands dirty again. Playing the roving reporter this last weekend with Tess and Diva was great fun, I'm very proud of the work we did for CarnalNation (be sure to check out the special coverage here and let them know you enjoyed watching the coverage!) and look forward to the next opportunity to work with them, however when it all said and done it all comes back to the rope.

Bundles and bundles of it, all made with love and pride, and shipped out to folks the world over.

It was not until I was just about home that it dawned on me that I spent 5 days on the Vegas strip and I never gambled once. Not even the nickle slots while waiting for a cab. Oh, don't get me wrong. I had a blast and there are a number of stories that I have to share, but is just a great feeling to come home to the arms of your loves, return to a job you love and to look forward to more adventures in your back yard.

Enough navel glazing for me, I've got rope to finish... what was that? Lunch at the taco truck? Oh it is good to be home :)

Based on the success of my recent forays into bondage instruction, neither the Hartford GRUE crowd or the NYC folks threw any rotting food at me or sued me so I am taking that as positive feedback, I'm thinking that there might be a niche for my unique "twist" on kink. While I have learned long ago to "never say never", I really cannot see myself in the same leauge as "real" instructors like Max or Midori. Nope, I'm perfectly happy to share what I have learned from other, better teachers and refer all the hard questions to the experts.

That said, it looks like the upcoming GRUE in San Diego might be my next opportunity to flex the instructor muscle again. Now due to the anarchistic nature of the GRUE, there is no set agenda nor is there an "approved course curriculum" so in short I can pitch just about any class my evil brain can come up with. If folks want to attend it, well that is another matter. Hence the magic of the "un-conference'

Here is what I'm thinking so far for class ideas;
"Inside the top secret labs of Twisted Monk" (did this one in Hartford and it was very well received)
"Your going to put that in my what?! Steel toys and other insertable madness"
"Tiaras, Mouse Ears and You. The delicate balance of humor and sadism"
"When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. Everything you ever wanted to know about being a male sex worker but were afraid to ask"

Last Chance, Last Dance

I'm gearing up to start a new color of the month dye job today, as I was walking out to my motorcycle this morning I was overwhelmed and inspired by all the cool colors the great maple tree in my back yard has turned as of late. Tromping across the fallen leaves and dew covered grass as my old dog trotted along side, in the hopes of taking a ride with me to work in the sidecar, her pale yellow paws were covered in flecks of damp green grass and copper brown mud. Fall has its own unique color pallet and watching the world shift from summer into it, knowing that eventually it too will bleed away into the monochrome of winter... well it just inspired me.

So while I ponder the mix of golds, deep greens and burnt oranges at my disposal, you should expect to see a new color posted probably on Monday.

Now on that note, for those of you still looking to pick up our 3-strand Bavarian rope... this is your LAST CHANCE. Word from our suppliers in Germany tell me that this was a complete fluke, a one time job and not even (technically) allowed for export. I've got a few hundred feet of the stock left and whatever does not sell is going in my toybag.

So order yours now or miss out on this one of a kind rope.

So I yanked this link from the LJ of one of the cutest Brits I have ever had the pleasure of spanking*, "Portraits of Men, At Their Most Masculine"

While interesting and insightful, save the one photo of the ass hat with the whiskey who is just down right scary, it got me thinking. last time I checked I was a man, quick let me check again... yep, my cock is still making most of my major life decisions, where do I feel most "Masculine"

For me, being "masculine" is a very physical thing. Being in my body, feeling the way it moves and responds to the world around it. So I would have to say it was a toss up for me; On a stage, in the saddle of a motorcycle or under a hard point with rope in hand.

Guys (or girls for that matter) what about you?

*Yes, Black Powder Betty, I am talking about you. Cheers!

Briefest of updates.
Looks like I've managed to skate by the worst of this crud that seems to be knocking everyone down. Looks like I got lucky and only got the 2 day variety, not the "lay yer ass out for a week in bed" one that my second in command got. Poor kid, she has to fly out tonight and compete in IMSL too. Of course even half sick and stoned out on cold meds, she can charm the socks off any judge at 10 paces.

So before I close this out and leave the warm cave that is my loft office for the production floor of the Abbey I thought I'd pass this one last interesting tidbit. Today is day 21 of the no fries challenge. Remember that? Yeah, who knew it would pass so quickly, but yes. I've gone 21 days with out a french fry, kinda wild huh? The end result? Dropped a couple extra pounds, but the more interesting thing is, as always to me, the way the body responds when given a challenge.

What fascinating machines we inhabit, give them a challenge, something to overcome, and they excel. Question is, how many of us are willing to take up a challenge? But I ramble, the rope calls and I've got a long, long day ahead of me.

Pardon me while I get my nerd on.

So you know those t-shirts/mugs/calendars/bathmats/bumperstickers that say “everything I needed to know about life I learned from kindergarten (or my cat/dog/podiatrist” and they have some list of pithy, life affirming BS anecdotes that anyone with a basic understanding of how to be a decent human already knows? I’ve always wanted to make one that read.

“Everything I needed to know about life I learned from reading Dune”

It would have things like:

“It is not good to just defeat an enemy, one must utterly destroy them”
“Never unsheath your knife unless you intend to bathe it in blood”
“Walk without rhythm and you won’t attract the worm”
“Do not cry for what you have lost, tears are a waste of water”

Porch Pastor sent this one along to me... and it made me shoot coffee out my nose.

Redux

As some of you may know, the powers that be seem to think that The Rocky Horror Picture Show needs to be remade. Yes, yes I agree this is just shy of lunacy and a crime against all that is right with this world. For most kinksters, discovering RHP was a touchstone moment. That point when you first realized that there were other people who, like you, viewed the world through a slightly tilted lens and you were not alone.

Now rather than begrudge the march of time, I say we embrace the change and take a hand in shaping our world. To that note I am going to take it upon myself to cast the remake. Here are my recommendations, Hollywood take note!


Brad and Janet: I’m at a loss on this one as I really do not make it a point to pay much attention to “Young Hollywood”, however it seems to me that it would make perverse sense to get someone from the Disney world who wants to shed their squeaky clean image and be taken finally as an “adult”. Maybe one of the Jonas Brothers? Hannah Montana perhaps? Not sure, somebody call Disney and have them pluck one or two from the vats they grow them out of and send em over to casting.

Dr. Scott: In a nod to Matisse on this one I’m gonna cast Christopher Walken. After seeing him cut a rug in the Weapon of Choice video I think he will do great. Besides who would not want to see him sporting a pair of silk stockings and heels?

Columbia: Pink. I can just see her sneering and tap-dancing away during the Time Warp and it makes my pants happy.

Magenta: Angelina Jolle? I’m not married to the idea, but her and Pink doing “toucha-toucha-touch me” sounds pretty smoking.

Riff-Raff: I say we just let Richard O’Brien have the roll again. He played the original, wrote the score and creepily still looks much the same 30 years later. If we can’t get him, Marilyn Manson would make a good understudy.

Eddie: Jack Black. No question.

The Monster: I’m unsure on this one. My original vote was for Daniel Craig, but my advisers say he is too old for the role and won’t appeal to the youth market. So this one is still undecided.

Dr. Frankfurter: While Tim Curry defined the role and gave cross dressers, would be glam rockers and gender queers the world over someone to aspire to, he is sadly too old now to refill those platform heels he once rocked so hard. At first the idea of Robert Downey Jr seemed a good one. He has the mojo and the chops and after the string of wins this year at the box office he could do film himself farting on a snare drum for 3 hours and we would all flock to see it.

However, as was just pointed out to me, Eddy Izzard would make one hell of a Frank.

Looking at the shots from SeaComp has reminded me of how much I miss pubic rigging, not “playing” in public, but rather doing more performance bondage. Call it the endless pull of the footlights, but the actor and exhibitionist in me misses the thrill of being onstage and when mixed with getting to throw some rope and you have an intoxicating combination that as of late I did not realize just how much I missed.

Fortunately there are a few venues that have extended invitations to perform, along with the youtube option it is more a question of when and what, not of where and how. Of course there is the obvious issue of just how the hell I am going to fit rehearsing and performing into my already overbooked lifestyle, but as with all things in life.

If it is worthwhile then you will find a way.

Music plays a large part of the daily flow of life in the Abbey, longtime readers will note that I’m always making comments about what we are listening to when we work. Pretty much from the moment we open the gates in the pre-dawn till far, far after everyone else in the building has fled, there is something playing. The Abbey crew are now made up of a pretty diverse cross section of musical tastes and I normally try to embrace the wide mixture of music we listen to over the course of the work day, I do draw the line at some things…. John Denver, for example, should only be enjoyed while watching re-runs of The Muppet Show, preferably while stoned.

We don’t always agree on music or even on what one defines as a particular genre. Take for example the often mocked, yet secretly adored genre of “Cock Rock” vs. “Butt Rock”

Yesterday found us in deep disagreement over what constituted “Butt Rock” and how it could possibly be different from “Cock Rock” or if there was a difference.

See, in my mind there is a difference. The music of the 1980’s that I would call “Butt Rock” is the kind of tunes that I could see a guy, sporting a wicked mullet and driving his still in primer late 70’s Firebird (complete with fuzzy dice) rocking out too while at the stoplight in front of the local mall. He may not be the best built of men, but his beer gut is well hidden by his Journey ¾ sleeve shirt and jean jacket. While “Cock Rockers” are those guys who would have hung out in front of the Whiskey a Go-Go in ultra tight “pleather” pants with hair that has had so much aqua-net applied to it that Greenpeace will be naming a hole in the ozone layer after him. Rail thin from a diet of too much coke and possibly even sporting eye liner. This, this is a cock rocker.

Explaining this theory to Tambo over breakfast this morning, she poised the question, “So what does that make stripper music?”
“Oh that is easy; it is all good stripper music as boobies are the universal musical currency.”

Its really a question of motivation…

I really do not like doing pull ups. Sure, for the first time in my life I can do them, lots of them actually. Still does not mean that I like them, especially after busting my collar bone last year, it took months before I could even dare to attempt a few tentative tugs at the bar. Now, a year plus later, I can slam out a dozen or so before I start swearing at my trainer. It is not that my body can’t do them, but I think it is a mental thing for me. Now I “listen” to my body in fear of hearing a tell tale twinge or pop. Call it paranoia? Call it not wanting to feel the pain of having bone shards grind together again, but I really do not like doing pull ups.

This morning, after swearing, I jumped up on the bars to bust out the dreaded deed and then it dawned on me. See it is all a question of motivation. I’ve been told that when doing a pull up you should look up at the sky, where you want to go, rather than down at the ground. A slight change of focus, that’s all. This is when it occurred to me, why look up at the plain, white ceiling? How can this be a motivating goal? No, what I think I need is a really motivating goal, better yet something to strive for. I’m pretty sure if I could convince some sweet girl to climb up onto the overhead bar and perhaps sit her naked ass down so that when I reached the top of the pull up, my nose was just buried in her exposed crotch… I think perhaps then I will be able to fully embrace the activity and not look upon it with such dread.

I’m thinking this could revolutionize my workout routine.

Lifetime of regrets vs. the regret of a lifetime?

Chatting today with a friend and the topic of regret came up. Now, I’m not going to be one of those types who claim to have “no regrets” you know, the whole “no regrets no remorse” thing is a little too macho and played out for me. Sure, I have things that I regret doing. Times when I lost my cool or situations that, in hindsight, could have been dealt with in a bit more diplomatic of fashions. However what I strive to not have is the regret of NOT doing something. That, that I think is the real killer. The thing that will haunt you till your dying days, that gnawing wonder of “what if”.

Of all the lessons my father taught me, the one that stayed with me the most was this. Around the time he was my age things were going quite well for him. Work was good, his boss liked him and just gave him a pretty hefty raise as well as a larger portion of the company to manage. Thing was, he was unsatisfied working for someone else, deep down he knew he could do it better, be more successful and make more money. Thing was in order to do it he would have to start from zero. Loose the posh office, expense accounts, company car, and relocate to a desk in our living room and try to build a company from scratch and a few dollars he had put aside. This, this was madness. His peers were thinking about buying sports cars and vacation homes, not forming startups. When asked, he told me this. “I don’t want to reach the end of my life and look back at it and wonder what would have happened if I never stepped off the safe path? I never want to regret not taking the chance”

Now this does mean one should go out and do every stupid thing that pops into one’s head in the hopes of not having regrets. Rather, to me at least, it seems that when faced with a tough choice, a choice that could lead to great happiness or possibly to great heart ache, one should never choose to not make the choice. This life is fraught with regret; of things we should have done differently it is the regret of not doing something, of staying on the safe and well lit path that is to be avoided. At the end of your days, who wants to look back and wonder “if only I took the chance?”

October is shaping up to be a landmark, deathmarch of a month. Between supplying rope to Max’s upcoming Portland intensive, Midori’s Kansas City Rope Dojo, restocking Kink.Com and the usual mountain of orders coming in via the site, I’m one busy boy.

How busy? This was my day yesterday
7AM Alarm goes off
7-8AM wander around the house in a daze searching for fresh coffee and clean socks (in that order)
8-9:00 Gym, lift heavy things till shoulders give out then do sit ups till I feel like I’m just about to puke, all the while threatening my trainer that one of these days I will get even with him by photo shopping him into donkey porn
9-10:00 Post workout coffee with Tambo, compare schedules for the week. She just looks at me funny and asks me if I want another cup of coffee.
10am Arrive at Abbey, crew has already been at it for an hour.
10-12 review new inbound orders, check email, phone messages, orders in progress, stock levels oh and the main water pump seems to have blown out. Race across town to get a replacement and fix it before the first dye job of the day is ready to be pulled.
12pm Pull first dye job, drink coffee,
12-2 Fill orders, send one minion home sick, send the another off to start billing orders, start second dye job of the day.
2pm Wolf down frozen Mac& Cheese, washed down with coffee, scan LJ/Fetlife/Blogosphere/ARA… nobody taking my name in vain? Nope? No rumors that I am dead or was maimed in a bizarre bondage accident? Nope? Ok, back to work.
2:15-4 Continue with filling orders.
4PM “Anyone else want coffee?”
4-6pm Pack finished orders, race to post office to make last call for a rush order, review new orders and begin setting up orders to be filled tomorrow… Man are we gonna need more rope, what we sold out of that book again?! Quickly dash back up to office and place stop gap orders for more Midori books.
7-9pm spend “Quality time” with alex,
9Pm untie alex, hop onto motorcycle, and roar into the chilly autumn night in search of much needed post play food.
9-10pm Ravenously attack dinner, waitress asks “you want coffee with that?” Response: “And how”
10 get alex home at a reasonable hour, somebody still has homework to do!
10-11pm check email, write blog, load up toybag for play date tomorrow, send Matisse “I miss you note” and wait for UPS Germany to open.
11pm, call Germany and sound like a dork cuz you only speak 6 words of German and 3 are obscene.
11:30 close up Abbey, hop on bike and head home. With any luck I’ll be in bed by midnight.


The clock on my laptop now reads 7:55am and I am looking at another day much like yesterday. After nearly 5 years of doing this, the trick I have found is that this is not a sprint, but rather a marathon. Balance between work, play, creativity and physical health is a delicate one but one that is needed if you want to keep this sort of lifestyle up for as long as I have.

5 Things I seem to be obsessed with as of late.

1) Oatmeal for breakfast, dunno maybe it is the shift in the weather?
2) The Watchmen movie. I loved the comic and have forced my dog-eared copy onto anyone willing to stand still long enough. 4 different directors have tried and the original writer of the piece has disavowed the film.
3) Tailored suits as fetish wear, I’ve spent the last 10 years avoiding wearing them and now I own 2. Something about the look and feel of a good, tailored suit that sets a certain tone and frankly I’ve about had it with PVC pants.
4) The physical manipulation of Sarah Palin’s image. The rhetorician in me is amazed at how her handlers have been subtly morphing her physical appearance and verbal habits. Anyone else notice that in her last 3 public interviews she has worn 3 different styles of glasses?
5) Steel suspension toys. My steel guy has been bringing me all sorts of cool new toys to try out. I think this Christmas we will be featuring a much more expanded line of suspension hardware options and the like.

Nominated?!

So I twittered about this last night, seems that I was nominated to be part of the "Hot Male Blogger" calendar. Not sure what all this entails, just yet. I'm I supposed to ask you to keep nominating me or wait till the actual voting starts? To be frank, this week is one of those "if I have to juggle one more thing, I'm gonna scream" sorta weeks so I'm going to ask if anyone out there who knows the deal would be nice and give me the reader's digest as to what is expected of me, that would rock.

On the plus side, it is not everyday you get the opportunity to be in a calendar. That is pretty damned cool.


Edited to add: Upon sharing this info with the Minion one asked, "so will you be posing nude with just a lawn gnome covering your crotch?" Now this idea has some merit.

Random Acts of Beauty

I twittered about this, but it seems the fleeting nature of a twitter just did not do it justice. So allow me to tell you the tale...

Today, as I marched along the parade route with Alex and the rest of the “leather contingent” as we were called. Really a fantastic cross-section of gay, straight, kinky, gender queer and leather folk who help make Seattle such a fantastic place to be “alternative”, but I digress. There we were, me in my tall boots and leather pants, Alex bounding along side me a spontaneous explosion of joyful puppy energy…about mid parade I’d say, the sidewalks swelling with cheering faces, waving flags and again all manner of young and old people all out to show their pride and support she emerged from out of nowhere.

Brandishing a bouquet of flowers, fresh from the farmer’s market she stepped out of the crowd and into the street. Running up along side Alex and I as we came abreast I only got a quick look at her, young and pretty. Flushed and full of life as she pressed the brown paper wrapped bundle of flowers into my hand.
“I love you” she said with a smile and dashed back into the crowd before I could thank her, before I could even ask her name. Once I fully realized what was happening, she had vanished, back into the seething sea of faces along the parade route. I carried that bundle of random color for pretty much the rest of the parade, till the limitations of keeping myself and my leather hooded companion hydrated became more than my two full hands could manage.

Now, the parade long over and no longer dressed in my all too warm leather pants I can’t help but wonder. Who was she? Had someone set aside today, taken the initiative to attend this event, visit the market, so they might me a gift and say those things? Did they wait patently as float after float passed by till they could make this fleeting connection with me? Or was this a random event. Someone performing a random act of love and generosity? Putting some good into the universe and I was simply in the right place at the right time?

If, as my ego would like to think, it was intentional then surely the girl in question is reading this right now and will hear me when I say thank you, I am quite touched. However if I am simply the recipient of some cool cosmic circumstance, then hot damn what a great idea.

The universe needs more flushed, beautiful girls sharing random bouquets of flowers.

Titter, tatter, twitter, twat

So Matisse has convinced me to give this whole "twitter" thing a whirl. Truth be told, I am not too sure if I am cut out for the task. My worry is that most of my updates will looks something like this:
"Coffee"
".. Is there any coffee left?"
"fuck it I cold, lets make coffee"
"any coffee left?"
and so on and so on...

However the nerd in me sees the value of this sort of instant communication. Lord knows I'm totally addicted to sending text messages on my phone. So while I am not sure if I will integrate a feed into this blog, still looking for a good way to add a youtube feed as well if you have one to share let me know, I figure I'll test it out over the weekend and see how I feel about it.

If you want to check it out, here is the direct link.

In other news, this is what happens when a customer asks me to make a custom rope and to draw my inspiration from, "Listen to a LOT of Type-O Negative, please"



Sorry kids, that one is a one of a kind custom and will not be up for public auction. However here is a teaser of one that I will be putting up soon. Probably this weekend. A blue/black Bavarian mix, a 60 foot kit of it no less.


Maybe I'll notify folks when the auction goes live by using twitter? Hmm...

Why it is so much fun to be me, reason # 812

It is Friday morning, I'm sitting naked reading e-mails and sipping coffee. On the table next to me is a fucking machine. A fucking machine that yesterday was located in my dominatrix girlfriend's dungeon but after a quick text message exchange that went something like this:
"Can I borrow the fuck-zal? Got a special request for one this weekend"
"Sure, I'll bring it tonight. U need attachments? I've got small, medium and a BATTERING RAM"
"Um, C. All of the above?"

Oh and I'm eating cold pizza for breakfast, too.