Since August, tattoo demon, Paul Booth, has provided the Headbangers Ball Blog with column (first weekly, then bi-weekly) about his adventures tattooing musicians and touring with rock festivals. Sadly, the lifespan of "Thrashin' Ink" has reached its end. Paul hasn't exactly run out of stories, but he's determined that anything else he has to say will either land him or someone close to him in jail or betray confidences and destroy relationships. So, like a serial killer with a a circular saw, Booth is murdering his column with no guilt and no hesitation. After today, BZZZZZZZZZWWWWHHHHRRRRRR! It's gone.

However, we've prepared for Booth's demise by securing another guest columnist, Otep's charismatic, opinionated and literate frontwoman, Otep Shamaya, who will take over in the first week of 2008. So, here are the final words of Paul Booth, after which, with the kindest regards, we say farewell Paul and rest in pieces. 

I’ve been fortunate enough to build quite a collection of strange and cool things, over the years. A lot  have come to me, not only from friends, but through tips from clients. And a lot of times, I will get a cool gift when I am travelling through other countries. The problem is, it’s always a bitch getting them home.

Sometimes “cool” can also be “illegal." Once I  was tattooing at a convention in Sweden, and spent the entire day working on a piece for a grave digger (something I would probably be if I was not a tattooer). We hit it off and spent the day talking about corpses. The next day he came back with a burlap sack and handed it to me as a thank you gift. I opened it and saw two human skulls. These weren’t typical, bleached white, medical specimens, these were right out of the ground. Of course, to a freak like me, these are great gifts. But there as a major problem.  They were covered with dirt and hair. Now that may sound cool, but imagine trying to walk through customs with those babies.

So, before I left Sweden, I went to a post office, bought a box and threw in the skulls with a bunch of newspaper. Then I pulled a random business card out of my pocket from the convention and wrote on the back, “Dear Paul, I’m your biggest fan and I hope this gift will perhaps get me in for an appointment someday. Signed, the Skull man from Sweden.”

I threw the card in the box and sent it home. I figured this way I would play dumb and pretend like I knew nothing about it if I got in trouble. Oh, did I mention the box smelled like death? Anyway, it never made it to my door.

This guy showed up at my shop one summer afternoon and was clearly not entirely sane. I had been away for almost a week, and when I arrived home my crew informed me that this guy had been sleeping under the front window of the shop for most of the week, just waiting to meet me. He kind of creeped everyone out, so no one would let him into the shop unless I was there.

Well, we finally brought him inside and when he met me he seemed shocked by my appearance. Apparently, when he had met me in an alternate dimension, I somehow looked different. I think my head tattoo was on the wrong side or something. Some of the background info we got from him was that he escaped a mental institution on the West Coast and hitchhiked across the States because he had "things" to tell me. He told me I shouldn't feel paranoid because there actually is a microchip embedded in the back of my skull. Also, he said the special crystal skull I was given years before was manufactured by the government and would make you crazy if you touched it. The funny thing is, I actually was given a crystal skull and I really have felt crazy ever since.

Anyway, the dude claimed that there are 16 alternate dimensions that I exist in, and that he had met me in all of them, except this one. Of course, I couldn't resist the opportunity, so I asked my manager at the time, Frank, to interview him on camera. The stalker begged me to tattoo him, so that he would know when he was actually in this dimension. I obliged because I figured that if this guy needed to kill me he would have done so already. Who knows, maybe we'll meet again... maybe even in a parallel universe.

Then, what appeared to be an officer, poked his head through the door, and shouted a bunch of words that I didn’t understand. He looked at my passport, and said, “Your name is Paul Booth?” I thought to myself, ‘Oh shit, this sounds like they’re looking for me. What the hell did I do now?” All I could think of was sitting in a Czechoslovakian prison for the next few years, which isn't terribly high up on my list of things to do. So, with a bit of hesitation I replied, “Yes.” Then the officer said, “You are tattoo artist!” Again, I hesitantly said, “Yes.”

Then, the last thing I expected happened. His eyes lit up, and he said, “I am big fan! I love your work very much.” He started taking off his uniform, and revealed a tribal bodysuit. The next thing I know, I’m signing autographs for these guys. Of course, at this point, there was no machine gun pointed at me, so it was much easier to write.

Believe it or not, I’ve never really liked getting recognized in public, but this was sure one f--king time I appreciated it.

I had been tattooing at a street shop for less than a year, and, obviously still had a lot to learn. While I was working on a customer, he passed passed out, which was the first time that happened. Not sure what to do, and in a slight panic, I went to my boss, who came in the room and tried to wake the guy up, but to no avail. Finally, he told me, “You might as well finish the tattoo while he’s out, since he’s not moving.”

So I got back to work. About ten minutes later, seemingly still unconscious, my customer lifted his head and projectile vomited across the room. He started by puking at the wall next to his head, and as he slowly turned his head, the typhoon of vomit splashed in an arc —much like a water sprinkler. He ended this puke-fest by spewing in my lap. It was probably one of the most disgusting experiences of my life. Then, the guy dropped his head and went back to being unconscious, as if it never happened.

Apparently, he was drunk, something I hadn't noticed when I started working on him. I managed to wake his ass up, at which point, he and his girlfriend agreed to clean my room. Of course, I was holding my baseball bat at the time. Since we didn't have a garden hose or anything else to wash myself off with, I used about 30 cups of water before I got enough of the crap off me to ride my bike home to change.

At the end of my half hour ride home, the vomit was dry and stuck to my leg through my pants. I had to hose myself down in the yard like a dog. And it took a another day to clean my room. So, let me tell you, getting puked on is not fun. That was the last drunk I ever tattooed, and I think I’ll keep it that way… chunks are gross.

Golden Showers
Here’s a quick story about some typical behind the scenes antics. While I can’t disclose which band did this, I can at least reveal what happened. I think it was on one of the Ozzfest tours. Anyway, I’m walking down the side area of the stage, and I see these four musician friends of mine standing in a circle pissing into two decent sized barrels of water.

I thought it was a strange scene, but I just chuckled and kept walking. I didn’t really get the joke, but since all of them were laughing, I figured something funny was going on that I’d hear about later. Well, I certainly did. Many of you may remember how Ozzy used to douse the crowd with water during his set. Well, those barrels were the ones he used on the crowd that night. So to all my friends in the first 10 rows, I hope Ozzy quenched your thirst.

Protect and Serve
I don’t know if any of you remember this tattoo I did years ago that seemed to be pretty popular. It was of the devil crucified on a cross and being tortured by Christ, the pope and a nun. The tattoo belongs to a close old friend of mine that I went to catholic school with and whom I’ve known since I was three. He had grown up and become one of those special forces, crazy-ass, soldier guys that could kill you with a finger.

I don’t remember if he was on leave or if he was retired from the military at the time, but he was hanging with me at a busy convention. There was a large crowd around the booth and he felt he should play the role of bodyguard. Because of his background, I guess that came naturally to him. So, we're standing there and, out of nowhere, this guy lunged forward over the table like he was going to attack me. Without hesitation, my old and dear friend sprung to action and punched the guy square in the side of his head.

As we learned later, the guy we thought was attacking me was actually having an epileptic seizure and he had unintentionally lunged towards me. I think the poor bastard woke up with a cracked skull. For better or worse, this is typical of the irony that surrounds my life.

I was about a year and a half into the business, when this very attractive female came in with her boyfriend and her mother. She got a small tattoo on her ankle (keep in mind, back then I had to do all those hearts and roses just like everyone else). I set her up on a low table that was about the same height as the seat of my chair. I hung her ankle off the end, and hunched over to work with my elbows on my knees.

During the course of the tattoo, her boyfriend kept leaving the room and seemed to grow increasingly irritated for some strange reason. Also, her mother stood at the other end of the table next to her daughter, both of them staring intently at the tattoo I was creating. Or so I had thought. The boyfriend kept bugging the mother to go look at flash with him, but she wouldn’t budge from her daughter’s side.

“What a noble woman,” I thought. It didn’t dawn on me that while mother and daughter gazed so intently at this tattoo, the boyfriend was becoming a bigger and bigger baby. So, we wrapped it up and off they went. As they opened the door to my room to leave, I sat back in my chair and made a discovery.

I had been free ballin’ on that hot summer day, and as I sat back, I felt a breeze between my legs that seemed quite refreshing. For some reason, I looked down and found there was a tear in the crotch of my pants, and one entire testicle seemed to have found it way out into the open. I realized I had done the entire tattoo with my nut out. I then realized, that from the vantage point of mother and daughter. Just past the tattoo was one ripe ball and there was no way they didn’t see it.

Was I embarrassed? You figure it out. The thing is, the mom was pretty cute, too. At the end of the day, I guess I’m just another pervert.

He had plenty of space for me, and I tattooed my ass off while I was there and had a lot of fun. I had already known Igor for quite a while before that, but this was the first time I had made it to his turf. I worked hard, but there was still plenty of time for fun and I can’t say enough about the Brazilian barbeque. Now, one place you don’t want to bring a fat man is an all you can eat steakhouse full of every exotic meat you can imagine. As great as that one, the best part of the trip was going to a futbol game with Igor.

I’m not much of a sports guy -- for some reason, I never could really get into the whole thing -- but this was an experience like no other. For people in Brazil, futbol is like a religion. Igor had warned me that it was probably going to be crazy, but I had no idea what to expect. We went early and stopped at a little cafe near the stadium, where things just progressively got crazier. People were marching through the streets, chanting some crazy Portuguese futbol mantra, as if they were marching to war. At one point, I turned and noticed a bus rolling by, fighting thru the crowd. I guess that’s not that big a deal, except that the bus room for around 50, but was loaded with 150 crazed people. They were sitting on the roof, the hood, hanging off the windows on the outside, and were all screaming that same mantra. With all the bodies crunched together, it looked to me like some giant human Chia Pet (cha-cha-chia!).

We tore our way through the crowd to get to the stadium, where we were thoroughly searched by a s--tload of soldiers with machine guns. Then, we headed to our seats. Igor brought me to what, apparently, was the mellower side of the stadium, where I could see the psychotic behavior as opposed to being a part of it. I’m a pretty chilled out dude so I was grateful. I guess I’m just a different breed of psycho.

Now, Igor is a big celebrity down there, and it didn’t take long for the news cameras to find us. It was kind of weird having two of them trained on my face for the entire game. It struck me as odd that they were interested in the only white guy there. I mean, everyone in the stadium was jumping up and down and screaming like mad for the entire game, and -- me being a chilled out kind of dude -- I looked like I was sitting and watching a movie. The only thing I knew for sure was, I was supposed to be cheering for the guys in green. I think they got a kick out of the fact I was so reserved. I remember there was one little section of fans for the opposing team, and they were next to a section full of soldiers that were there to prevent the two breeds from killing each other. Forget the excitement of the actual game, I got to watch people jumping over the railings and getting the sh-- beat out of them. Now that’s entertainment. There’s something about random violence that just really warms the cockles of my blackened heart. Go, team.

Getting to know Slayer, as I have over the years, has been an absolute highlight of my career -- not only as a tattoo artist, but as an artist as a whole. Those guys have to be some of the coolest motherf---ers I know.

I don’t think there is any real starting point to how we met. It was kind of a gradual thing. I’d always kind of finagle my way backstage one way or another at the shows, and eventually we got to know each other. Maybe I was with a band that opened for Slayer, and through that I got to know them a little better. I think I first tattooed singer and bassist Tom [Araya] at Tattoo the Earth, an old tour I was involved in back when I did some tour production. I was pretty much in charge of the "Tattoo" element of the tour, but I did have some influence in getting Slayer and Slipknot to headline, so that felt good.

Anyway, that's where I really got to know the band a lot better. I ended up doing a lot of tattooing on Kerry, and we’ve become really good friends over the years. I find myself having to keep my “fanboy” side separate from our friendship because if I think about the idea that I’m close friends with a guy who had a very direct and major impact on my art in the early years, I suppose it kind of wigs me out.

I remember one time we were in Kerry’s backyard having a barbecue, and my girlfriend at the time snapped a picture of me and Kerry flipping burgers on the grill. It’s no big deal as a friend, but as a fan it’s like, "Holy S--t! I’m flipping burgers with Kerry King!" I don’t ever want that kind of, “Hey, can I have your autograph?” side of things to interfere with our friendship, so I just try to play cool.

On a side note, I have this idea for a guitar sculpture I’ve been dying to do for. Hopefully, in the next couple months, I’ll be able to get started sculpting this Slayer monstrosity guitar that I think he'll really dig, so that’s going to be a fun project. Oh, by the way, Kerry and Ayesha, his wife, are the executive producers of my first film. They were actually crazy enough to give me money to make the damn thing! Imagine that! Kerry King of Slayer -- executive producer of an art documentary. I even got that crazy bastard to tattoo me! He did a Blobman portrait on my leg, which I’m very proud of.

Sometimes tattoos mark a point in time, or a bond with a friend or another silly moment. So, I have a leg dedicated to silly little tattoos from friends .Looking back, I shoulda had Kerry sign my f---ing hamburger!

Don't miss Paul Booth's other guest blogs.
Thashin' Ink #1: Tattoo Tales From the Master
Thrashin' Ink #2: Through the Eye of the Needle
Thrashin Ink #3: Meeting Phil Anselmo
Thrashin' Ink #4: Cannibal Barbecue Idea Stops Paul From Tattooing Ozzy

Guest Blog by Paul Booth

I was out on Ozzfest maybe the second or third year in. News about me had traveled to Ozzy and he wanted to meet me. I was sitting backstage tattooing Mark Workman, an old friend that used to do the lights for Slayer. And, Ozzy’s manager came up and said, "Ozzy would like to meet you. Do you have a minute?"

I'm like, "Yeah, I think I do! Of course I do, who wouldn’t?" So, they brought me to Ozzy’s dressing room, walked me in, and then left me there. Ozzy came out of the back room and all of a sudden I find myself alone with Ozzy Osbourne! We sat down on the couch, I got my portfolio out and he started looking through it. We sat there for about 15 minutes together and he was asking me questions and talking about the work he wants to get. It was really cool. I mean, he had really intelligent and thought out questions.

Sitting with him one-on-one, it was nice to see that he really had it together — more so than he’s portrayed in the media. I was pretty impressed, not to mention just sitting alone with Ozzy Osbourne --- I mean, how cool is that?! After our little interview he said, “Maybe next week or over the next few days, I want you to finish sleeving my arm.” So, I was pretty f---in’ excited, obviously!

A couple days later I found myself in catering, talking to Maynard from Tool. Now, I don’t know how much truth there is to this whole next story because this is only what got back to me. But here's what I was told. I was talking to Maynard about Jesus for about 30 minutes or an hour about how he thought it was a mushroom cult. Somehow the conversation traveled to my nifty idea of having a cannibal barbecue and me inviting him. I had this mortician in England who promised to put a leg on ice for me and if I ever wanted to barbecue it I could go out there and he would have it ready.

That led to my idea about of a cannibal barbecue, and I was half-serious about it. I mean, I’d probably end up going to jail if I tried it, but it was a fun thing to talk about. I guess I left him a little bit dumbfounded, and he wasn’t quite sure what to say.

I guess I like to freak people out; it’s my nature. And freaking out anybody is always fun, but the way the story got back to me was that Maynard had gone to Sharon Osbourne, told her the story and apparently convinced her and a group of people that I was a genuine Satan worshiping cannibal. Apparently, Sharon was so freaked out that she wouldn’t let Ozzy get tattooed by me. Again, I don’t know how true it is, but it's a great story.

And at the end of the day, I asked myself, "What could possibly be cooler than tattooing Ozzy Osbourne?" And my answer was, "Having his wife not allow me to tattoo him!"

I first met Phil Anselmo on the Sepultura/Pantera/Biohazard tour. He came in the dressing room while I was tattooing, threw some Carnivore in the player, and kinda started a moshpit right there! At first, we were scoping each other out. Each of us know who the other was, but we had never really met.

Somehow, we started talking about Norwegian black metal forefathers, Darkthrone. Despite their enormous influence, very few people in the States know who they are and the fact that we both liked them gave us an excuse to keep talking. We wound up in his dressing room talking about music. He played me an old side project of his called Christ Inversion. It was brutal stuff, and he also played me quite a few other projects he was working on. We started talking about Halloween and horror and hit it off pretty well, which was cool.

At the end of the night, he invited me down to New Orleans to work with him on his legendary haunted house called House of Shock. I remember that first time scaring people. I was on a tour, and I got the bus driver to drop me off in New Orleans so I could hook up with Phil for Halloween. That was my first year working with him at the House of Shock, and after that, it turned into a yearly vacation. I went down every October for about five or six years straight, putting on corpse paint, wearing dark hoods and cloaks and going into the haunted house to terrorize people. There’s nothing more fun than scaring the shit out of people and trying to make them piss themselves.

The area we worked in resembled a cemetery alleyway, and there was no getting through without passing us. We had a whole team going! I became tie guy who would keep people's attention as they walked through the alley, As they cautiously watched me to see what I was going to do, Phil and our clan would jump out and grab the s--t outta them, terrorizing them, and then they’d come running towards me and I’d jump on them too! We called it ping pong. They’d just be cornered and start screaming! Any time kids came through, we’d make sure that we’d separate them. One of us would get a hold of these children and just terrorize the living s--t out of them. I’m sure we put a few kids in therapy, and you can bet they wouldn’t set foot in a haunted house after that.

I don’t know what it is about that but goddamn, that was some fun. Poor lil’ guys. We were having fun for ourselves not for them, and that’s what made it so much better. We made a routine out of it. We’d wake up in the middle of the afternoon, eat dinner, go to the haunted house and work there for four or five hours. Then we'd go back to Phil’s house and watch horror movies until dawn. Now, I just go down there to watch horror movies; we don’t really do the House of Shock much anymore, but I do miss it. That’s for sure.

That was where Phil and I honed our skills in the art of fear and horror. One great part of the story is that while I was on the road before I got to New Orleans, I ended up having to bring my babies [aka fetuses in a jar - ed] with me to Phil’s house. The jars needed some cleaning up and resealing, so I brought them outside on his front porch. It was great because my daughter, who was about 11 at the time, her sister (around the same age), her mom and her mom’s boyfriend all stopped by. They were in the area, and they ended up helping me clean up the babies. So, one morning, I was on Phil's front porch cleaning up all the bottles, and there was a bit of formaldehyde leakage. I’m sitting there with my family at, like, 10 a.m., and Dez from Coal Chamber/DevilDriver wakes up, comes out, and sees me with my family taking babies out of jars and rinsing them out and putting them back in. So, Dez wakes up everyone and has them come see like it's Christmas morn. Phil busts out and shouts, “Paul, you get those damn babies in the house right this minute!” So, I wrapped them all up, put them back in their box and stashed them away.

It was just funny the way he said it — a typical Paul Booth/Phil moment I suppose! It must’ve been a really f---ed up thing to see, the kind of scene that you just don’t expect. I guess I sometimes forget how eccentric I can be. When you think about it later, it’s like, here’s Paul Booth showing up at your house, and the next morning he’s outside playing with dead babies in jars with his daughter. Think about that the next time you invite me over for tea.