Cartfly is featuring my store!!!

I will be featured tomorrow (Tuesday Dec 16th) on the Cartfly Blog! Please check out the article and feel free to do some shopping while your at it.

Thank you for your support!

Check out my blog post below to see my shop!

The coolest gifts for under 20 dollars!

You have plenty of time....

There's only four days left for ground shipping...so get your orders in soon!


*****Free gift with every thirty dollar purchase!!!*****





Shop at:

Last Call
or
Brooke's Shop


Live in LA? Fuck shipping charges and fuck the mall!
Come by my booth at the Silverlake Flea Market this Saturday from 9-5.
Hope to see you there!
xoxoxbrooklyn

Flea Market Sale!!!!!!

Skulls and Wildflowers and Copronason Sat Dec13th

Here's a peek at my 5 new paintings that will be up at the Good Samaritan Group Show at Copronason. Each are $350.00....reserve your favorite before the show!
Drinks, bands, great art and me!

"Good Samaritan's" Group art exhibition

Where: Copro/Nason Gallery

Bergamot Station
2525 Michigan Ave , Unit T5, Santa Monica , CA 90404
Ph: 310/829-2156
E-Mail: www.copronason.com

What: gallery 1 - "Good Samaritan's" group art exhibition - gallery 2 - Matthew Bone's "Like giving a kid a loaded gun "

Opening Reception, December 13 - 8:00 � 11:30 p.m.
Dates: Exhibit � Saturday, December 13, 2008 � January 2, 2009

Contact: Gary Pressman, Gallery Director Copro/Nason Gallery

CoproNason gallery presents a group art exhibition �Good Samaritan's�.

A portion of the proceeds from this show will be donated to �The Dog and Pony Show� The music and art community is filled with talented people who share the plight of having no access to adequate healthcare. There is a national problem with our healthcare system and we all need to help each other in these dark times. All of the money donated will go directly to pay the bills of those who need assistance. The more money we raise the more people we can help.

ARTIST LIST: Alex Garcia, Bad Otis Link, Bethany Marchman, Brandi Milne, Brian Viveros Brooke Kent, Charles Manson, Chet Zar, Chris Peters, Christopher Pugliese, Dan May, Dan Quintana, Delphia, Eric Fortune, Femke Hiemstra Jasmine Worth, Jeff Gillette, Jimmy Pickering, Keith Weesner, Kevin Scalzo Kukula, Lauren Gardiner, Lola, Luke Chueh, Makiko Sugawa, Mari Inukai, Mark Covell, Martin Wittfooth, Michael Page, Naoto Hattori, Nathan Spoor, Nouar, Peter Forystek, Tin, Valarie Bermudez, Ver Mar, Vince Cacciotti, XNO & more

Art show Oct 25th-Nov 9th at the Lab, Costa Mesa

Lust Bomb Logo- new website to be up soon....

Punk Rock Pin Up No. 2

This little fiesty punk will be on October's flyer for the Angry Samoans show.
Check out the final version that Sean of Punk Rock Social created with my drawing. Sweet!

No. 13 and No.14

sweet little honeysuckle

Last Stand at Crack County (part 1)

Certain combinations of events are bound to be a disaster. Take for instance, this little gem of a bad recipe: one dead aunt, a predator half-cousin, a bar full of Crips, crack, guns, caddy’s, ho’s, and me. *Note: Dear cousin Jesse if you ever stumble across this, I love you but that weekend was a fucking nightmare.


At the Church of Rock:

Funerals are never fun, and not just because someone you loved dearly just died, but also not fun on a whole entire different plane of existence when you are surrounded by gangsters and toothless crackheads who are also, in their own way, mourning as well. That being said, it’s hard enough to deal with the pain of loss when you also have to fear for your own life at the same time.

It’s been about 6 months now and I still can’t even get my head around this one yet.

I guess I should give you a little background history leading up to this event.
My mom’s little biker-babe sister, Aunt Marty, lived in a trailer in the mountains in Washington with super-creep Uncle Ken.
They sold drugs and had a beautiful red-headed baby girl named Jesse.
Uncle Kens drinking habit was as bad as his never-ending beatings on my aunt.
Cousin Jessie rebelled against her wasted meth-head-white-trash upbringing by getting knocked up by a Crip and had a wonderful little baby boy at age 16.
Alcoholism had gotten the better of Uncle.
He died after getting out of prison for trying to kill Aunt Marty.

Fast-forward 4 and a half years.

Mom gets a call from Cousin Jessie, Aunt Marty had just died of a lung and heart failure. It’s not said out-loud, but it’s from crack. That week Jessie spends the night in jail with a DUI, while her boyfriend also is in jail for a fight. Both her parents are dead. Someone else has to take care of her son and his 3 kids. All this and she’s only 21.

So my brother and my parents and I head up to Washington for the funeral. I hadn’t talked to my aunt for so many years she didn’t seem real to me anymore. I had to pull from old memories of her drunken late night phone calls and lessons she taught me on picking psilocybin mushrooms in the wild. She was my favorite aunt.

We show up late to the funeral home. I know my aunt had been religious, but I guess she ended up as a Born Again, or a Baptist. There was a strange tension in the air. I walk up the aisle and sit in the second row behind Jessie and her boyfriend and son. The sermon starts and immediately the preacher is going off. He’s telling us we did my aunt wrong. Who is this guy? He’s staring us down. The audience is agreeing. Adding in “hallelujah’s” and “Amens!” Most of them are missing teeth and have crazy eyes. I’m thinking who the fuck are these people? It’s psycho-babble time.

And boy are we white. I guess Aunt Marty had followed her daughter in taste in men after Ken died. Please don’t get me wrong, I don’t give a shit about any of that, but what I do give a shit about how people treat each other. You really don’t notice the color of your skin until people MAKE you notice. I still don’t understand how opportunist-racism works, but found out later why we were the enemy. This was a room full of hate.

///More to come////

No. 11 and No. 12

Twenty-four Hour Freakshow

Oh man. How do I start this one?
First, I will pre-apologize to anyone suffering from Down Syndrome or Turrets. Or accute OCD. I'm sure they all are very nice people, so if you are a human right advocate or family member of one their tribe then please stop reading. Or read along and think I'm prick. In this case I'm not going to ruin my good time on account of your feelings or their personal well-being.
Let me ask you this: How LUCKY was I to not only have a retarded guy try to run on the treadmill right next to me today, but also to have the good fortune of a completely mirrored wall directly in front of me to watch the whole affair like it was on tv? I suppose if you work with the disabled then you can really picture what I got to see, but most of us in our lifetime don't get the up-close and personal chance to witness all the extreme facial expressions and awesome treadmill mastering that the mentally retarded have to offer.
At first when I saw the guy walk up next to me, I'm thinking, there are 12 other available treadmills in here, guy. Don't try anything funny. Oh, but funny he was. Funny like you know you aren't supposed to laugh in church when you hear a fart but still can't help yourself. And we all know that shit's about ten times funnier when it's not supposed to be. It's a really good thing that I had my headphones on and didn't hear the mumbo-jumbo he was yelling out when his water bottle flew out of the holder and onto his track. Obviously that's not supposed to happen and treadmills can become a Death-mill if anything gets underfoot. But when you're running (or trying to run) like an angry momma rhino, then you can expect that shit is gonna start to fly.
When this happens, I'm about 20 minutes into my run, a little winded, and my face starts screwing up on me because I'm trying not to laugh. Fuck. Really. You try to keep a straight face with that catastrophe going on right next to you. Remember, I'm seeing all this full-frontal too. The whole time I'm thinking, am I an asshole for thinking this is funny? And, is anyone else trying not to laugh? First answer: No, because it really is, and the second: also a disappointing No. Nobody seems to have noticed him or they are all being very stoic.

Oh, yes. The fun for me doesn't stop there.

Pretty soon after being defeated by his squirt bottle Corky gives up.
Game-Over.
Exit retard-boy stage left.
I have about eighteen more minutes left to run and where's my goddamn entertainment going? I barely have a chance to finish that thought when just like clockwork, enter crazy Turrets/OCD chick stage right. It's a Fire Walk With Me kind of moment.
I'm the kind of person who believes that people afflicted with Turrets are pretty damn funny. Who doesn't? But when you stick them in a pair of high-waisted pants with the shirt tucked in and give them a bad case of germ-aphobia then they become fucking hilarious.
Oh the pants! And the weirdness! This chick was even better than the guy with Down Syndrome. She immediately caught my attention when she jumped off the Stairmasters like she had just grabbed onto electric eels. I guess the handles must have been sweaty, which is pretty gross, but this lady made an entire production out of it. Again, I was lucky to have the best seat in the house.
So she turns around and starts shaking the heebie-jeebies out and STORMS over to the spot on the wall where the gym keeps disinfectant in a spray bottle. Before picking up the bottle she had to do some sort of angry weird dance for awhile. I think she wiped her hands on her pants about 12 times during this dance. Anyways, the bottle is filled with what looks like blue windex.
First she sprays her hands, wipes, and sprays again. Dances. Sprays. Wipes. Ok. Not normal at all, but fair enough.
Wait. Oh no. What's this?
Her head must have been contaminated too because that gets a hearty three sprays.
Pure genius.
After that little meltdown I thought she was going to leave the gym but why would she do that after all that routine cleansing? She storms back to the same Precor right behind me, and starts patting it down from top to bottom over and over again like it's a white-hot griddle. But not with disinfectant, no, she left the bottle on the shelf. Just with her antimicrobial hands.
What the fuck? I'm still running. Am I really seeing this or am I just getting dehydrated?
Holy fuck.
She gets on the machine and begins marching up and down. I can't believe it.
I'm looking around at other people who have obviously noticed this fiasco and everyone has that smirky grin like "what the fuck, did you see that shit?" look on their face.
I saw a trainer bend over the medicine ball in agony.
People might have missed the Special Olympics that had happened right next to me a few minutes earlier, but not this. Meanwhile, I'm losing oxygen from trying not to bust out laughing. I was fighting an inner demon. Only shear determination and iron will kept me on that treadmill. This was an exercise of the mind. The chick was still marching in place when I left the gym. Elastic waistband pants and polo shirt moving along to an angry rhythm.

Oh, yes. This day was like a fucking miracle.

If there is such a thing, then I swear that I just got paid back in good Karma for the past two full days of teaching. What I had just seen was Tropic Thunder-funny. But even better, because this was a real live show that no comedic skit could even come close to touching.

These were true handy moments at their finest.

Lankershim Blvd Part 2. Speed Kills

7:48 pm.
almost got ran over by a man with one leg in a cast and one cut off going 35 mph on the sidewalk. In a motorized cart. smoking as fast as the wheels could spin. That cholo was killin the sidewalks one crack at a time.

Love Locked

A small series of my pen and ink drawings. Numbers 7, 8, 9, 10.

Up Shit Creek no. 6

Forgot this one:

Art of the Week

So in response to a massive 100 Drawing Challenge that I volunteered for, this week I started painting/drawing again. These are just "spur of the moment pieces". A few days ago I looked around my studio (er, bedroom) at all the junk, grabbed some paper and paint and tried not think about it too much. Just like pages of a sketchbook. Cheap and easy. I'm pretty rusty though so this really is a kick in the ass. My silly goal right now is to get at least 5 a week done but I'll settle for 2. I'm ok with being a slacker.
So here's what I've been up to so far..... and looking back on it now I have no idea why I made this shit. Please don't ask.

A White Russian Moment

It's not by coincidence that the word "crap" is found in the sad world of "scrapbooking".

New pin up art

So here's my attempt at a punkrock-pin up character for the Punk Rock Social. If they have me do more in the future I swear I'll get better. Drawing like this is really not my gig but if makes me get any better at pushing a pencil around then I'm game. Ugh! look at her funny crooked arms and shitty feet! haha :)

Hangovers.

of the ice cream genre. It's what happens when you fall asleep after eating a little rocky road and don't drink any water.

Junkyard bands and the half ton man.

My success today after work was avoiding this huge ordeal of homework that's following me around like a bad stink. I blew it all off by watching the half ton man. You've got to see it. It's not a very touching story, as the Big Guy is kind of a saucy prick, but it's still pretty amazing. Amazingly disturbing. I especially like the parts when the B.G. and his wife are talking about how they are eating healthy foods now that are low in sodium and fat to lose weight (you know, like whole buckets of KFC fried chicken, for protein). Oh America......why are we so dumb? Maybe it's because some people don't like having to use a toilet? Why get out of bed, when you can just go in it? Good thing Richard Simmons makes some jaunty appearances and spices things up with his massive wispy pube-fro haloing his peanut shaped head. His fabulous short-shorts come to aid with much needed comic relief, and are just slightly easier on the stomach than watching a 1100 lb man oozing fluids from his skin because it's stretched too tight and leaking. ugh.
Ok.
Let's move on and talk about other phenomenons, like Ukefink. I never thought that someone could play the drums, AND and an acordian at the same time, AND carry a tune. All while keeping the momentum going for a haphazard band made from what you could score from a trailer park's lawn sale in Aurora Illinois circa 1973. Their surprisingly catchy and melodic cardboard, foil and twine get-up had as many well worn instruments and change-ups as an Appalachian partner-swapping festival, and was just as fun to listen to and watch. Pure enjoyment that makes you believe once more in the little things in life that used to make you happy. Just like cinnamon and sugar on toast.

i miss my kitty yuki

Awake in bed in a hotel room and can't wait to get home and get kitty snuggles and squeezerpuppy  love. 

Comic Con Pre Sale-All Gifts $20 and under!

It's almost time for me to try to mingle and sell my wares to thousands of comic geeks, costumed fanatics, and art collecting fiends.....and I'm looking forward to it. At least, for the moment I am. I've never been to Comic Con,  and after getting pawed at by a couple Siths (are those losers still around?) and knocked over by Hellboy my optimism might falter. We shall see. Maybe I'll meet a hot Jack Sparrow at one of the parties one night and we'll stumble our merry drunk ass way down to the Marina and into the inky black waters of the bay. Ha! Oh god fuck no! How sad. 

Anyways,  make sure to check out what I'll be selling down in San Diego this year amid all the craziness. Summer vacation so far has turned into a never-ending print and jewelry-making adventure for me,  and I've been working hard to have unique and inexpensive gifts to sell for you.  All items are only 20 bucks or under...what a great deal for awesome art made by yours' truly!  

So if you are going to the Con, look for me at The Society of Los Angeles Booth Friday morning and Saturday evening, or sometime Thursday-Sunday at Brian Ewing's/Blood Brothers' Booth, or at the Blood Factory Booth (I know, we've some sorta blood theme going on here. And no, I'm not a vampiress or a butcher, and I'm not going to be wearing a costume, well, maybe some blood, who knows?) I'll be working and selling between the 3 spots so see if you can find me at one of them. Good Luck! I will have some free stuff to give away too, so your mission will be rewarded if accomplished. Fun! 

For all of you who are smart enough to stay away from that gigantic freak-fest, you can shop online for my items within the comfort and safety of your own walls. I'm using a new store called Last Call on CartFly, and shipping is only $4.50 per order. My  Esty Shop is still up too, and features larger prints but you should check out the deals at my new shop too.

Hope to see you!

hugs and kisses. BK

DeSalvo's Cd cover....it's finally done!

I think. i hope.  Now let's hope for that art show in Scotland....keep your fingers crossed for me!

Lankershim in all its glory

I never know what to expect when I walk out my front door. Despite its garish abundance of used car lots, abandoned furniture warehouses and endless potholes, North Hollywood has its more flavorful moments. There's a part of North Hollywood that is unique for its run-down desolation. I'm talking about the part of North Hollywood that I know very well: the mile long stretch of Lankershim that runs northwest of Burbank Blvd. My dog and I both know this section very well, we walk that dirty mile down and back a couple times a week. For her it's a sidewalk park devoid of tasty fourlegged animals, and for me it's a real-live treadmill. During these 40 minutes I get to know my neighborhood and to take it all in, breathe in the dust and the bus smoke, step around the crusted vomit outside the laundromat, bypass the greasetrap leak over by the Yum Yum donuts and try not to smell that horrible sickly smell of boiling chicken or pork or whatever it is that every apartment around here likes to cook that smells so goddamn bad.
This walk can be as much of a punishment as a reward. In the summer it can be as blistering and hot as a naked walk through El Paso with nothing on but a pair of worn cowboy boots and some Malibu Tanning oil. At night it's a no-man's land of men circling in their waxed cars like vultures, simultaneously rolling their tinted window down just as they pull up alongside me and my dog. Avoiding them is like a scarier version of Frogger; so I prefer to walk in the day, and the ridiculous summertime heat doesn't stop me. I walk with an open mind, squinted eyes, and a bad attitude, pissed off and ready for anyone that tries to talk to me. Leave me alone. No, I'm not a hooker. No, I'm not a stripper, and if I was doncha think I would take a cab?
"So what kind of work do you do" Mr. Seik-in-a-turban asks me.
I don't want to answer that.
"Am I working today?"
No, I'm not working today.
"Your dog doesn't look like she's feeling good."
I know. that's why I'm standing in the shade with her.
"Do you want a ride?"
Uh, no. (visions of him turning the corner the wrong way while we're in his shitty volvo station wagon, never to be seen again...)
We're almost home. It's not that far and she'll be fine..
"I have a bottle of water in my car, do you want it?"
Yes. Fine. I'll have a water. But you go get it and bring it back and I'm not doing anything for it.
"Well, do want anything else?"
No.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like some money or some food stamps?"
(Are you kidding me? Do I look like I need foodstamps? !!!)
I'm not poor. Give me the water and leave me alone.Thank you.
Oh wait, I look down...I'm wearing a cutoff jean skirt and a faded turquiose tanktop with a motorcycle on it. It's really hot out and I'm sweating. Pure WT-wear. And I AM a white girl. All this adds up to the wrong picture for this guy and any man driving by in his jalopy landscaping truck.
"Are you sure you're not looking for a 'date'?"
I walk away, shaking my head. Second thoughts immediately creep up. Hell, I should've just asked for 20 bucks and hopped on over to Fashion Q to pick up something cute. Oh well. Guess you can't blame a guy for trying. You rarely see girls walking this stretch unless they're behind a stroller with another 3 kids at their side, or ones with a cold sore and bad roots. So why would I be walking just for fun? Hmm, maybe because I have a fucking dog that needs to be walked? Too obvious for some.





So usually during our walk I have to keep my headphones up real loud to drown out all the hissing, the honking, the name calling. Some of it still catches me off guard still though. A bum sabotaged me once during my walk on Christmas Day. He popped up from behind a low cinderblock wall that enclosed an empty dirt lot and told me,
"Hey baby, you look like MEAT! YUM!"
Was he hungry? I did not have any holiday ham in my pockets to give him, poor thing. My other bit of seasonal cheer came this New Year's Day. While walking in the parking lot past Circus Liquor Store I received a loud hollar and a
"Shake Yer Clam, Whoooooo!"
from a very happy bum. He sure was spreading his joy because he made me and some other random people within earshot laugh too. I've decided that there comes a point in time when it's best not to be offended by what people say and just roll with it and appreciate the crack-muddled language of the street. It's all in the eye of the beholder anyway, I swear. As I was walking in a crosswalk I had this one guy yell at me that he liked my dog but did not like my ass. That's ok because I liked his car but not his face. His rude comment was just beginning to stick with me until I turned the corner and the next guy that saw me couldn't believe his very eyes. What a booty I beheld!
"Let-me-walk-behind-that-beautiful-mass! Oh, you don't have the time for me? Oh really? Well you look damn good momma. Mmm-mmmm!."
He loved it. Screw that other guy.
I'm a little afraid that my routine walks will be less entertaining as gentrification wipes its clean white glove down Lankershim Blvd. The neighborhood has had a bit of taming over the years, along with the laws that placed silky bikinis over erect nipples in all the city's strip joints, came the disappointing uprooting of cult-classy venues such as Cinema Spa. This all had to happen because, you know, the world really needs another family-friendly Best Western, and nipples are just so dang naughty.
Thankfully though, there are a few gems left and that's why I still have this odd love affair with North Hollywood. Take, for instance, the Silver Saddle Motel with its free-standing "Mr. Blonde" advertisement for 99-cent Camel filters, circa early eighties. What? How, and more importantly, Why? Are the cigarettes from 1980 too? Besides that small wonder there's the spray painted horse on the roof. And the deserted burger joint that hasn't been open for years next door. I'm sorry to say I've never had the pleasure of riding out a night at the Silver Saddle, and so it is on my list of things to do before I die. Before North Hollywood loses another seedy cockroach-infested icon from its pornorific hey-day, I really must step foot through the worn painted doors and onto the dirty carpet. With all respect, I'm only assuming that the carpet's dirty because this venerable motel has only, count them, two employees. Now that's alot of cleaning for whomever is not working the door. As dirty and disgusting as this place may be, it still gets points for not burying its ugly head amongst all the reform. And any guy who's man enough to pay for a rough night there with me on some plastic sheeting with a bottle of rum and some bug spray I'd say I'll be his forever.
So while keeping with the theme of things, after that said fanciful night at the S.S.M., maybe the next day I'll have to leave the guy behind and finish off my trashy excursion with a hung-over walk down to Denny's for some weak coffee amongst the other NOHO nere-do-wells. And then, of course, I'll have to walk that dirty mile back home. Alone.
Just maybe on that walk-of-shame I'll meet up with some familiar faces. If I'm lucky, I'll run in to the tall and flamboyant "Concetta" at a stop light, and we'll do a quick chat about about shoes or the weather, while I hide my smile remembering the first time I ran into her.
It was enormously hot that day. I could see her coming up from the corner of my eye as I waited at the Oxnard light at Lankershim. She looked so uncomfortable in the sweltering heat in her black stretchy rayon tube skirt, top, scarf, and 4 inch wedgies. She had an awkward gait and her narrow hips looked like they couldn't support the heavy burden of whatever was stuffed in her bra. The worst of it was that the afternoon sun really was winning the battle over her makeup. It was running down in rivulets and making a sad attempt to cover the thick stubble that shadowed her very well defined, square jaw.
She had to bend her slender yet full-calved legs to take a good look at my blockheaded female pit (who had a pink collar on, lest you mistake her identity).
Her coal-rimmed eyes lit up as she commented,
"Oooooh! How cute!" in a whisky and honey and Virginia Slims voice, but still questioned,
"Is it a boy or a girl?"
Haha, how funny you should ask?