Personal and Confidential. Yet Not.
taken from a members-only web log. comments unwelcome.

I went to public school for 8 years of my life. At the begining of my 8th year, my
parents asked me if I wanted to take the test to make the jump over to private
school. I figured why not. I don't have to go, but taking the test was a "cool" thing
to do. Kids rarely passed. I took the test and not only passed, I was accepted to
the four schools I listed as my choices. The top four in the city. Xavier, Xaverian
et al. No one was expecting me to pass and my parents said what the hell, they'd
send me if I wanted to go. I did. I didn't last one year. I fought with the Brothers
regarding religion, I refused to pledge the junior frats, I didn't want to study, I
fought... In the end, I was "asked to leave," not officially tossed. So I left.

I found myself back in public school. New Utrecht, to be exact. At this time I was
really into my music, cutting school to rehearse with older kids bands, renting
noon studio time alone in order to get my hands on Marshall stacks at full volume.
A few months in, I met a kid named "Red." Named that for obvious reasons. Tall,
Irish, ruddy, tattoo'd red head trouble maker. He played bass. We hit it off big
time.

Red turned me on to Motorhead, Venom, UFO and all that. We started a band
called "Almost Human" and he'd wear a kilt and combat boots. We never played
out but had a great time. Red, ugly as he was, scored the hottest cheerleader in
the school. Laurie. Snagged her right away from one of the football jocks.
Amazing. Had a charm I guess. We both dropped out at the same time in order to
fully concentrate on playing music.

Red took a job driving a tow truck just to get some coin to spend on studio time
and strings. Maybe some brew. I took a job teaching guitar at a local music
store. My dad teaches there now, as a matter of fact.

One day at the store, I hear screaming in the front. Girls crying and yelling. Guys
making noise that I knew well. War noises. The sounds guys make before a fight.
Red had been murdered.

The way the tow trucks work in Brooklyn is "first to the scene" gets the gig. So
guys listen to police scanners and jet to the scene of an accident as fast as they
can. Red consistantly beat all the other drivers. This one day, they'd had enough.
They told him to give this one up. He said no. Or more likely "go fuck yourself."
They beat him to death with a baseball bat.

The cops caught the guys, but they beat the charge. Seems Red's heart gave out
and it wasn't the blows that killed him. I think they got one year or something.

Red's funeral was a trip. Packed. Fun. Irish. Drunken.

Just the way he would have liked it.

Two years here, seven years there, three more over there. Chunks of time, faded
memories. New neighborhoods become old stomping grounds, and them I'm gone.
Faces I'll never see again. Hands never to be held again. Tactile sensations that
still play with my nerve endings. Scents that tap me on the shoulder in the street.
Was that her? Emotions informing dreams. A dull, muted sadness, pushed down,
push back, pushed away, buried. Lives touched, lives changed, lives lived. Voices I
will never hear again. And that breaks my heart. Keep moving.

You know what? Some people are mean. Boo fucking hoo. Some people derive
pleasure from making others uncomfortable or pointing out so-called flaws. That's
life. Life's tough, wear a helmet.

You need to be able to deal with the people who upset you the most. Be it through
humor, fighting back, or simply ignoring them. Online, ignoring them is easiest.
Personally, I have a sharp enough tongue and a mind to match, so I find it more
satisfying to engage and fight back. Ultimately, it's waste of time and I
acknowledge that. But I don't believe it's a waste of energy. Some of my funniest
rants and creative writing have been brought forth or coaxed out in response to
some dumbass making false statements or just being an idiot.

But this is in ASCII. IRL, it takes much more to get me to respond. But here, in
ASCII, there is no excuse to let others get to you. If you do let them get to you, it's
because you enjoy being the victim.

Simple.

I love piercing and tattooing. I always have. I got my first tattoo when I was 13.
Pierced my ear at 15. Fuck, I spent a solid 10 years of my life piercing for a living.
Then cutting and branding. And more piercing. I opened my own shop and hosted
people from all over the world. Appeared on dozens of TV and Radio shows and
in print hundreds of times. If I recall correctly I was one of, if not the first BME
interview. But this is just one small part of my life. Of what makes me, me.

Why do I tell you this? So you understand where I am coming from when I say
this: People who define themselves by their tattoos and piercings are no better
than the jocks or suits. In fact, they are sadder.

You are not your tattoos. Your tattoos do not make you who you are. And if
they do, you're pathetic.

One way to get over the love of your life who broke your heart? Watch her
dancing with the woman you loathe more than anything else in this world. Funny
how that all worked out. 12 years of shit wrapped up in one evening. Sweet.

I feel so much better. Like they cancelled each other out. Some stories I'm sure
they're telling each other, too. And they just met.

I get these heavy waves of desire to travel through Europe again. Nowhere in
particular. More of a feeling. A longing. I love the way an airplane feels when
everyone else is sleeping. The feeling of unlimited potential awaiting me when the
plane touches down.

The clubs in Norway and Sweden where they put buckets of fire in the street to
let you know there is a club behind those heavy wooden doors. Doors that are
hundreds of years old and secured with thick, blackened iron. The way the women
drape themselves in rich wools. Self-assured and elegant. Northern Europe just
feels different. The air is different. The weight of the air.

I love the descriptions of a futuristic Europe as written by William Gibson. I'm a
very visual and tactile person and Gibson's descriptions of the locations really
touch me. The descriptions of the skies, the water, the people... Again, just the
feeling. The atmosphere. That's really it, the atmosphere.

I need to walk through that atmosphere, living an adventure,
on a secret mission...

My Dad is a cool fucker. I'll never forget seeing him at the edge of the pit when I
opened for Slayer in 1986. Or the time he went shopping with me to pick out a
Marshall stack and he stuck his head in front of all eight speakers to make sure
they all worked. Or the birthday when he gave me a Paul Reed Smith guitar.

Some of my greatest memories are of my entire family coming to see me play with
Dee Snider and watching my sister beam meeting him, or my mom breaking his
balls, or watching him and my Dad chat about life.

The picture below was given to my Dad by Dee and it reads: "Stan, I hope I have
half the positive influence on my son that you had on yours."

Most people don't know that Dee has been faithfully married for over 25 years, has
four awesome children and has never done a drug in his life.

How do I feel about where piercing is today? I'm glad you asked.

It's turned into a fucking sport. A sport and a commodity. Most piercers were
flipping burgers right before starting to poke holes. "Ya want fries with that?" There
are definitely a few piercers doing some great work, a few, but in general, it's a
fucking joke.

Ever read Extreme Bodyart? What a rag. What a piece of shit. Rib
cage piercings oozing pus and the smiling "piercer" thinks he's God's gift. A
"master piercer." The client has to be be drugged out. What garbage.

They asked to interview me and I said sure, send the questions.
And this idiot had the nerveto send "when did you get into piercing/what is the
wildest/where is your shop?" cut-and-fucking-paste 5th grade level crap. Zero
research, zero imagination, zero concern about the subject matter. You should
have seen the email he got in response. I went and looked at the "mag" before I hit
the send button. I'm glad I did.

I don't give a fuck about PC live and let live shit, 180 piercings in your face belies a
self-mutilatory urge, ditto for poorly done facial tattoos. I don't condone it and I
don't think it's cool. Hell, it's your "face" do with it what you will, I don't think
anyone should stop you, but I can call you a dope if I like, ya dope.

It should be about enhancement. A ruby labret drawing attention to red lips. A
nostril ring to the curve of a nose. An emerald ended barbell seting off green eyes.
Solid steel rings in ears. Sorry, but that lawn chair hanging from your septum looks
kinda stupid. Again, a sport. "Hey look, I'm at 00000000000 gauge. I can't think
straight because of the constant headaches, but it got me in EBA!" 60 lip rings
draw attention to themselves. Don't get me started about the 39 per brow
piercings. What I am supposed to be looking at? The fact you can handle the
piercing? Do you think you are cutting edge or proving something? I mean,
seriously, what is the motivation? I love Madisons, Erls and much of the unusual
work going on. Don't get me wrong. I still love what we do, but it's a matter of
degree. I understand differing views on beauty and all of the cultural implications,
but come the fuck on.

And hell, suspensions? What the fuck is going on there? Admittedly, I don't know
enough about them to speak with any authority, but kids doing them in basements
and tearing their flesh because they can't do simple weight-per-hook calculations?
Not that they have any more credibility because they did it early on, but I'd love to
hear what Fakir and Jim Ward think about all this. And by the way, I love TSD. So
don't go fucking bothering Allen. He's busy with that beauty of a girlfriend. What
she sees in him I'll never know.

I walked down 6th Ave in Manhattan today. Jesus, there are tattoo and piercing
shops in head shops and practically in fucking delis and shoe stores. Navel
piercings for 12 dollars.

Today was my last day as Senior Producer at Atmosphere Interactive. BBDO's
digital unit.

It's been a pretty wild week. I've never felt more affection from people I've worked
with.

I have a reputation as a no-bullshit, cut-to-the-fucking-chase, don't waste my time
kind of manager. And its pissed a lot of people off. I definitely had weekly
confrontations with bosses and staff. So I was incredibly suprised by the kind
words and support that I recieved this last week. The email alone brought tears to
my eyes, but last night they threw me a party at a cool downtown bar and the
turnout was huge. I got way too drunk on Maker's Mark and Bass ale. It was one of
those parties where everyone knew each other. And also probably the first party
where I looked around and said to myself "all these people are here to say
goodbye to me." That was an unusual and intense feeling. Not very comfortable but
definitely heart-warming.

Then today they took me out for sushi and gave me a few gifts. I also recieved a
beautiful Finalist certificate from the Cannes advertising award show. I'm sure we'll
be winning a few more awards for all the 2002 work. We cleaned up in 2001. I'm
going to miss the hell out of a few of those people.

Finding the picture I posted in my last entry inspired me to fuck with my
"Rockstar" page. I found a bunch of old photos and put them up.

www.nootrope.net/rockstar

I look at where I am today as KA V3.2.

Version One was the days of seriously trying to make it as a rock guitarist.
Touring the country, releasing three CDs, collecting guitars and writing songs...

Version Two was my full-time piercing days. First at Venus, then Gauntlet and
then opening my own shop, Modern American.

Version Three is my professional career as a Digital Project Manager. Of which I
am on the second upgrade with this new position. I start 9/16/02.

Version Four? I have no idea. That is what keeps me going.

People accuse me of "loving myself" because I keep such a running record of what
I've done and am doing. But that's not the case. The truth is that I love what I do.
The constant growth and pushing of my limits. I have bouts of serious self-doubt.
The truth is, I am rarely ever fully qualified for the position I find myself in.

But give me 60 days...

I played basketball today. On two different courts that I hadn't been on in over 20
years. The first was my junior high school and the second was my elementary
school. Quite a few flashbacks.

Dee Snider gives me some props.

MM: One of the most disturbing elements was Captain Howdy's dialogue about the psyche of piercing fanatics. How did you research that?

DEE: I read a lot of books. A lot of video. Spent time with a great piercer named Keith Alexander, who is in the S.M.F. band. He's a guitar player. Keith was in the band Carnivore, which
was Pete Steele's first band of note.

I met him when I was researching the film. He was a piercer at The Gauntlet, but now he has his own shop called Modern American Body Arts in Brooklyn. He's a premiere brander and [he also does] scarification. He's also hooked deep into the S&M and fetish world and was kind enough to share so much of that with me.

On these long drives between gigs, we'd just talk for hours. He'd say, "Read this book, watch this video, check out this website." He was paid to be the consultant and help design the piercings and brandings for authenticity. I didn't want to just throw a bunch of metal in a face. There is rhyme and reason, the way people do things in the body mod community.
I wanted everything to be technically real.

I usually drop off my laundry at a place around the corner. Without them, I'd be screwed. I drop off an average of 50 pounds at a time. Because I have so much in the way of clothing, I can go a month between loads. Since I do it that way, there is a day or two where I am down to a few pairs of socks and boxers and no jeans, towels and so on. And I have a lot of towels. The good shit. White, oversized Martex. It's a fetish. And sheets. Queen sized Demask, combed cotton and all that sexy shit.

So, I'm looking at a huge mound I need to sort and drop off but I've been so fucking lazy about it. Cursing myself and motivating. "Screw it" I say. I want a beer. Toss on the shorts, kicks and denim shirt and grab the keys and mobile. The laundry can wait, I say again. Lock the doors and hit the street. Turn the corner and see four fire engines on the avenue in front of the laundromat. The damn place is on fire!. I came this close to losing all my stuff.

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