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.

I always thought having a stalker would be fun. I was right.

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.

The first time I visited Eastern Europe, I was on a train with some friends from Germany to Prague. I was with a couple other tattoo artists and as we approached the Czech border at about three in the morning we were talking about getting recognized in strange places, and how weird it was. Then, the train stopped at the border, and within moments someone banged on our cabin door. I guess we didn’t open it fast enough. (maybe 'cuz we had been drinking the whole way there). The door abruptly slid open, revealing a Czech soldier, with the biggest machine gun I had ever seen. He took one look at us, then singled me out, pointing his gun towards my chest, and shouting, “Passport, passport!” I damn near shit an eggroll.

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 get asked a lot of tattoo-related questions in my travels. But for some reason, the question I always hear the most is, “Did you ever get puked on?” Unfortunately, the answer is yes.

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.

"Neglect" painting by Paul Booth

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. Read more...

A long time ago, in a tattoo shop far, far away, there once worked a young lad who loved to show off his testicles. Well, not really, but here’s the story.

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.

About six years ago, ex-Sepultura drummer, Igor Cavalara, invited me down to San Paolo, Brazil to do a guest spot at a new clothing store that he had opened. I’ve tattooed in a lot of places and I figured, what the hell, why not a clothing store, too?

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!). Read more...

We've all seen shots (like this one) of Slayer guitarist Kerry King gettin' his noggin tattooed by Paul Booth, and any fan of either knows the two are close friends. Here, Booth discusses how he got tight with Slayer, how King tattooed him and financed his first film and the next Slayer art project Booth has up his tattered, bloodied sleeve.

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! Read more...

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. Read more...