Greetings, Art Monkeys!

For those of you who, like me, have not yet bought a new calendar, I have some news for you: It's a new year! At least it is by the Gregorian calendar, or as we in the Western world call it, "The Only Calendar that Matters." We rang in the New Year the best way we knew how, with a Dr. Sketchy's session scant hours after New Years. Our model was Velocity Chyaldd, the noiresque, pseudoLynchian femme fetale. I say pseudoLynchian, because real Lynch features Kyle MacLachlan or at least Crispin Glover. I'm sorry, that's how I was raised. Justin Lussier, give me some of those photographs that you do so well.

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After 5 years in business, Dr. Sketchy's is again accepting applications for models! In particular, we're looking for... *male models who are handsome and muscular. Dudes who want to pose for us must have six packs. Dancers a plus. You must be comfortable posing with a woman, and make her feel comfortable as well * drag queens * more women of color * people with serious physical skills. Circus performers, contortionists, gymnasts, ballerinas * bodybuilders of all genders Additionally, models must be reliable, able to hold a pose (much more boring/painful than it looks), and have a sense of humor and theatricality. We strongly prefer people with costumes and ideas about what sort of themes they'd like to explore, as well as people who have their own

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G'journey, Art Monkeys! Where my other 'poccies at?

For those of you without access to a calendar, Dr. Sketchy's Anti-Art School came into existence just a little over five years ago. To celebrate our continued destruction of civilization, we hosted an apocalypse-themed session. This was possibly our biggest session ever, featuring more models than I can name, including Katelan Foisy, Amber Ray, Rogizoid, Nik Sin, Lillet St. Sunday, Kat Mon Dieu, Ariel Wolf, Lux Berlin, and the ones whose names I've forgotten! But you don't have to take my word for it. Justin Lussier took pictures.

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It’s fitting that this final installment of apocalyptic flash fiction celebrating Dr. Sketchy’s 5th birthday/end of the world party should come from Kali-Ma herself (as channeled through the divine Katelan Foisy). She’s blue, but don’t let her mood fool you. She’s one crown-wearing, skull-slinging diva who’s ready to down and dirty.      It's been four days since any of us have left the four red walls. The earth around breathes a heavy sigh and the chandelier shakes. We haven't eaten or slept, only prayed that the world doesn't crumble beneath us.      “OM-KAMEEN-KALIKAYE-NAMAH. JAI KALI MAA, JAI KALI MAA, JAI KALI MAA” The room chants this in unison. Since the disappearance of Shiva, the world is in disarray. Kali, intoxicated with rage and the blood of war, has not

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There may be only four horsemen of the apocalypse, but something as history making as Dr. Sketchy’s fifth birthday demands more. In this lugubrious installment, Jennifer Somerset imagines the hell of being late to the last party…on earth. Bob almost missed it, “the” apocalypse that everyone had been tweeting about ad nauseum for weeks now. The odds on the exact day and time out of Vegas were either up or down, taking into consideration the relation to Pluto to Haley’s Comet in conjunction to the number of tree frogs found under this one particular log in the Amazon jungle. But all of this was the least of Bob’s worries at this particular moment. You see, he was charged with the task of delivering a case of wine to Kali as gift from Dionysus—another story for another time. The long of the short, it had

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And thus we find ourselves just one quotidian workweek away from the impending naked apocalypse. Time to dust off the pasties and welcome the fine, furry flash fiction of Mike Cho. Why ask why? Question      If tonight was the last night I called the police (who never come) on the college neighbors from upstate or Jersey or from wherever they come, drunk and 3 AM partying in the hall because this was not anyone’s home but merely sorority or dorm, the cute little studio they’d always remember from their big year alone in the city, paid for by daddy as long as they kept up their grades (they didn’t), didn’t take drugs (they did), and found a job, somewhere (Armani Exchange), and if today was the last day I complained about any of this because tomorrow, lashing out in helpless, hopeless anger at

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