It was a dark savage night early on in 1998 that I found myself sprawled
across the synthetic fiber on the floor of the dot-com I worked for.
My Nubian brother, Col. Sanders, was next to me - we were having a bad
day. The demons of management had us slaving again and it was bloody.
Our minds were racing for solutions to our predicament - we needed money,
fast, and concluded an online pornography ring was certainly the most
logical course. We mused over pricing schedules. We mused over the models.
We mused over domains. We then mused over the models.
Many domains we mused over, but only one lived on with us; It branded in our
spirit like a lighthouse in the mist - an icon of freedom. Fleshpickle.com
Over the years to follow, we'd return to this effigy of our false
independence. We'd stare at network solutions and tempt fate, nearly
registering the domain. Col. Sanders called it the last true anthem to our
freedom, but we knew we weren't quite ready for that final step. We were
juveniles, after all.
So it sat, unattended, for nearly three years when another of my business
associates, dre^, grabbed himself by the fleshpickle and registered the
Frankly, I'm glad the responsibility wasn't mine.