Ladies and gentlemen, tonight I bring you the very final installment of the Cadaver Chronicles.  It is a bitter sweet conclusion. Sad in the fact this is likely the last you will read of it on this humble blog. Yet happy, because from all the positive feedback he has received from these post, he has decided to carry it on further.

I’ve begun writing an expanded version of the memoirs for traditional publication in book form and this one will pull no punches, it’ll include every juicy story.  -Cliff Cadaver

Currently he owns the domain www.CliffCadaver.com, but the site is not live yet. I have spoken with him and suggested he get at least a placeholder up soon, and I believe that’s currently in progress. Keep your eyes peeled there as I am sure his website will be a wonder in and of itself. It will also contain updates about his upcoming book and information on how you could pick up your own copy of the hardcover book “A basic guide to body piercings” that was mentioned and shown in Episode 2.

On behalf of myself, BMEzine.com and all of the modblog readers who enjoyed these articles I would like to thank  Cliff, for taking the time to share all of these stories with us and I wish him the best in all of your future ventures.

If you have been hiding under a rock for the last few weeks, here are links to the previous episodes for you to play catch up with (1, 2, 3, 4, 5), otherwise keep on keeping on for the final chapter.

The Death Card

I can’t even see my largest tattoo, a backpiece that covers me shoulder to shoulder, stem to stern. I got it before I began piercing, about the time I realized construction would never cut it. The image is one you’ll recognize. It’s from the Rider-Waite tarot deck. It’s also in a lot of horror movies. Major Arcana, Roman numeral thirteen, skeleton. It’s the death card. It symbolizes change. The friggin’ Monkey on my back.

I should have quit piercing five years before I did. The writing was on the wall, in bold capitals, outlined three times, day-glo. I looked the other way, as usual. I was mired in the past, struggling to keep my head above water in a present with no future. Bad limbo. Everything had declined from the golden days when Mike was there. Tarnished. Jenny McCarthy included a night time shot of my shop on the opening of her talk show. Edgy. I started drinking.

I watched body piercing go from a very specialized niche industry I loved, to something I didn’t recognize. I didn’t know a single person with a pierced tongue in 1990, and navels were still a rarity. In 2005 I pierced so many kindergarten teachers I’d need one of those take-a-ticket systems. Starbucks. “Single file, ladies. Single file.” I’d stop at 7-11 on the way to work for a single-serving of chardonnay to back my morning coffee. Not enough to get looped, just enough to face the world. Not right.

Prices hit rock bottom all over town except in my shop. George Bush laid his great depression across my neck like a jack-boot. It seemed none of the competition were traditionally trained anymore; they’d take a quickie class at a “piercing school” and then open their own “pierceology academy.” Just shoot me. I never saw so much low-quality jewelry before in my life. Distributors would show me their wares, glow-in-the-dark trinkets made of plastic and Taiwanese pot metal. They’d shrug their shoulders when I asked about internal threading. I’d unscrew the ball from a zero gauge circular to show them what quality and proper design looks like. They’d inspect the Good Art or Anatometal product that cost ten times more than their cheapies. They’d leave the shop laughing. Crazy round eye.

I was the longest tenant on my block. I saw so many businesses come and go it wasn’t even funny. Rockwood and Studio City Tattoo had moved. Punk rock music store, gone. The antique store whose owner had traded me a light-up porcelain geisha head for a guiche piercing, gone. Even the Thai joint closed its doors. And then Tony Theodor, my Greek landlord, died. He had cataracts so bad he could barely see, he’d had a couple triple by-passes, he came up to about my belt-buckle. Once, he saw some customers getting pushy, he returned brandishing a shovel. He and my father had exchanged whispered words when Tony saw a Masonic ring on my dad’s finger. Since I lived in a triplex over my studio it was easy for him to pound on the door when I overslept or played hooky. Thanks a lot, Pops. He taught me dirty phrases in his native tongue. I’d yell “Ap-po-piso!” when I saw him. He’d blush. I loved him.

The new landlord was Persian. He never smiled or taught me squat. He raised my rent every year. He leased the unit next door to palm-readers. They lived there. With children screaming twenty-four-seven and fragrant gypsy cooking wafting into my shop all day. “May I help you,” I’d ask after welcoming a client. “Yeah, I was thinking about a Prince Albert?” They’d wrinkle their nose. “Do I smell goat?” Yes. There was no parking. The new hair salon contracted Nazi valets that commandeered our small lot. I worked seven day weeks. I worked a solid month without a day off. More than once. Still, I had trouble making ends meet.

One day I got a call from a guy looking for trepanning. I thought a second before asking, “You mean drilling holes in your skull to let the voices out?” I said it slow, gave the words added gravity. “I’m impressed,” he said. “You’re the first one to know the term.” Great. “Oh,” he continued, “it’s not to banish any voices. It’s for consciousness expansion.” He chuckled. I sighed. “Might I suggest meditation?” I was really dismayed that some kid into Egyptology was calling mod-shops for skull boring. What’s a little street shop elective surgery between enthusiasts? “If you call enough places you’ll find some idiot willing to sani-wipe a Black and Decker and just go for it. Call a brain surgeon if you’re serious,” I said. I was just about ready for a skull-fuck myself. I was thinking zero gauge, about nine millimeter.

I Paid Dearly for a Happy Ending

I know why the universe let me drag my feet for so long. Why I didn’t permanently close my doors earlier, when it could have saved my sanity. Why I never pulled a trigger.

It was January third, two-thousand and three. A cosmic reprieve. She wanted her eyebrow pierced, said she wanted something just for her. Her marriage was on the rocks, divorce proceedings underway. Today was the fourteenth anniversary of her bad wedding. “I don’t know what’s worse,” I told her. “Being lonely, or being chained to the wrong person.” She’d think of nothing else for the next week.

“You’re back!” I said. I was happy to see her. She was nice, pretty. “I think I need more,” she said. We wouldn’t know until later that we each had the same secret thought upon our first meeting. I could stay with that person forever.

Spread-eagle in my stirrups, she wouldn’t stop giggling. I figured it was nerves. The stress of a genital piercing can manifest itself in many ways. “What is so funny?” I asked. “Ticklish?” She wouldn’t say, but she had me laughing too. She paid, bought some aftercare solution, and asked me for a date. She’d been laughing because she had a plan. Thought wily female thoughts and nothing else for that entire week. She knew she’d take a chance, ask me out. Get her hood pierced and give me a preview of things to come. A reason to change, to live. I kissed her cheek. I married her.

The Cadaver Rises

My colorful plumage finally attracted a mate. Forty year old, confirmed bachelor Cliff Cadaver got hitched on April fourth, 2004. All of our wedding stuff says, “Four, four, four… Forever.” We took our vows in the highest wedding chapel on Earth, top of the Stratosphere hotel in Vegas. We bought seven acres in the Angeles National Forest. Named our spread, “Triple 4 Ranch.” No more sterilization chores or touching creepy strangers, now I muck horse stalls, groom miniature donkeys. I feel kind of like Syd Barret tending his garden after too much fame and LSD. I’m finally fulfilled. I want to live in the forest forever. I have no street-cred left to lose; I want to quote Winnie the Pooh for my wife, Carol.

“If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day, so I never have to live without you.” – A.A. Milne

Epilogue

Sometime in the late nineties my casual interest in body piercing became my passion. I was desperate for knowledge, yet there was so little accessable. Nowadays, we take for granted how easy it is to learn about body piercing (or any subject for that matter) by using nothing more than a few keystrokes. However, in the nineties the internet wasn’t something I had access to. So I relied on printed media, which was fairly hard to come by in Columbia, SC ,where I grew up. Fortunately, I found a local Harley shop that carried bulk packs of  various  tattoo magazines  back issues and I bought them up. One magazine in particular, the long since defunct, “In The Flesh” magazine was a piercing magazine and what I read in those pages defined who I was to become.  The interviews with Jon Cobb, Blake of Nomad and many others changed my entire outlook, not just on body piercing but on life as a whole.

One of the inspirational piercers featured in those pages was Cliff Cadaver. Cliff was a cutting edge piercer of that era and unlike a lot of piercers at the time, he was willing to share his knowledge.  Through various interviews, features and his book “A Basic Guide To Body piercing” he put out the information that other piercers guarded as if they were top secret classified info. In fact, one feature in particular where he described the nasallang piercing (that he is credited as inventing) was so inspiring to me, I rushed out at got one myself (that I still have and wear daily).

So, when I was thinking of influential piercers whom have not been previously featured on a BME interview, Cliff was an obvious choice. I tracked him down on facebook easily,obviously there are not many people named Cliff Cadaver. At first, when I asked to interview him he seemed reluctant, but after a short while he had started writing his memoirs and totally alleviating me of any interviewing responsibilities. Since, I am an admittedly crappy interviewer, I was thrilled to have this piece written and edited with very little input by me. I helped check a few facts for him, but aside from that, this whole piece is written by him.

The memoirs he provided me with are  rather long, so rather than present it in one long feature with a few choice photos I decided to milk it, and use it as a weekly feature with several photos in each episode. Since this piece (beyond my intro) is purely his writing, I must preface it by saying the opinions stated in it are Cliff Cadaver’s and do not reflect the views and/or opinions of myself, BMEzine.com or the Catholic Church.

“Monster God: Memoirs of a Body Piercer”

By Cliff Cadaver

A Welcome Shake and a Wave Goodbye

I opened the message from Sean Philips. It said, “I’m documenting the history of body piercing.”

“I haven’t set foot in a mod-shop since I walked out of mine on New Year’s Eve …five years ago.” I hit Send.

His reply came immediately. “This is important.”

Well now, here’s a fella that likes to get down to business, I thought. This wasn’t the usual facebook message from a brand new friend. Hmm, tell me more. “People these days don’t even know the history of our trade,” he said. He used words like archives, innovations, techniques and dedication. He said legend. I’d just completed a UCLA certificate program with straight A’s, I’m an accomplished stroker. Sean Philips laid out his proposal, he was polite. Legend. I was dealing with a professional.

Timing is everything. I wrote the first segment to show how hard it is for Cliff Cadaver to change. Something discussed in spades later. I wanted Sean to know that only after five years was I ready to face my past. I’d spent fifteen years of my life in the p-biz. Enough time to leave a lot more than holes. Now I was getting hit up for memoirs. Sean Philips, a piercer/blogger from Virginia, would get more than he bargained for. And so would I.

I’ve read that for some writers, the process happens so easily that they compose as if they were reading. That’s not how it works for me. Whether it’s a novel or a short story, inspiration comes slowly. My muse must be as naturally stoned as her acolyte. I freewrite. I scribble shitty first drafts. I ponder, and edit, and rewrite. I polish. Pages and pages and pages. If I’m only half satisfied I start over again. Anal? It’s a blessing and a curse. These memoirs weren’t like penning the fiction I’m used to. They poured out of me. They wouldn’t stop. Projectile vomit. For the first time, I was writing like those brainiacs I’d read about. I spent two weeks in the zone, getting it where I wanted it. And I was drained.

Swear on Anton’s bible. I made the same promise to myself that I’m making to all of you right now. I will tell the tale to the best of my ability. The most accurate history that my aging stoner memory will allow. If there are any mistakes, they’re small. Nothing was stretched, or altered, and I feel really good about that. I even did some fact checking to supplement my memory. The good feeling fled when I contacted someone from my past. “Wait a minute,” I told him, couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You want me to erase your history?” I wouldn’t have believed it in a million years. “Yes,” he said, “I don’t want to be another of your characters.” He’d changed. Now, he was ashamed of piercing. Upset I was writing memoirs. Embarrassed of me. He actually said, “What if they find out I’m tattooed?” A sledge hammer rang the bell of one of those carnival contraptions. Adrenalus Maximus.

I regained my composure after three days of fuming. Fuck it. If my first apprentice would be ruined by all the wonderful and complimentary things I say about him, I’ll spare his feelings, even if I don’t agree with his reasons. It’s so hard to eat a shit sandwich, but I’m not the cosmic chef. And I’m used to it. Now this isn’t Mike Leatherman we’re talking here, he’s way too solid a cat for that. It’s the other Mike, Mike T, the one who asked me to drop or misspell his name. I could be mean and say he’s found religion or Sarah Palin, but that wouldn’t be true.

Tuinstak? Tuinzaka? Tuistenopoulos? There are only two lies in this story. Mike Tuinkhov is the biggest one. You’ll have to read closely to find the other. A small fib with a B.A., a B.S., an M.A., and a Ph.D.

Ancient History

My first job was for the Los Angeles plumbing union, local 78. I slung their tools for fifteen years. I built condo and housing tracts, schools and restaurants, tilt-ups and skyscrapers. I was halfway to retirement and a full pension. That would never happen.

They had no concept of what I was into back in the eighties, unable to pigeon-hole me. They didn’t know how to take piercings and heavy ink. If it wasn’t my blue hair throwing them off, it was the permanent fangs I paid Doctor Fraga a couple grand to install. I’d dangle my legs off a helicopter pad at break time, thirty stories up. I’d toss a paratrooper toy off the side and fight the urge to go with it. I ate my lunch and my pride. I survived under a Harley-Davidson hat and ached for change.

I was very lucky to be accepted as a piercer’s apprentice by Crystal Cross at the now defunct Red Devil Studios, co-owned by Jill Jordan. Same shop that spawned artists Kevin Quinn and the Tuesday Brothers, Riley and Jesse. Hollywood, tattooing, piercing, non-stop excitement. Bliss.

I trained for two years under Crystal back when the only other place in town doing exotic piercing was the Gauntlet. I went from a high-paying Journeyman’s salary and a nice apartment in San Pedro, to a place on the ‘vard I shared with two roommates. I struggled and made chicken feed for wages. Both these things would change.

1993 saw the opening of Cliff Cadaver Body Piercing in Studio City, California. My business quickly flourished, life grew even more exciting, I was happy. For a time.

No Place Like Home

When Red Devil closed its doors, I accepted an offer I couldn’t refuse. Rockwood Rick, owner of Studio City Tattoo and long time friend, suggested I rent a suite above his shop. Business boomed, no one else offered full-range piercing in the San Fernando Valley so I easily cornered the market. In six month’s time a Ventura Boulevard storefront opened up three doors down from Rockwood’s place. I upgraded. I painted the interior with Hammerite metallic silver paint; it looked like someone took a ball peen hammer to the insides of a flying saucer. The exterior was gloss black, red neon, chains, diamond plate and acorn nuts. Giant, four-foot piercing needles skewered signs and fringed the roof. Over the years, I paid a custom metal specialist to fabricate steel and aluminum furniture, counters, walls. Every square inch was silver or metal. My shop was gleaming and bullet-proof. So bitchin’. I worked alone for the first year and thrived.

For further episodes from this series keep checking modblog every Friday until it’s completion. Same mod time, same mod channel.