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
| I have tried to relate the facts of my fifteen year body piercing career as accurately as possible. I’m an old stoner, ’nuff said. It’s possible I transposed inconsequential names from this convention to that. I honestly can’t remember which combination of apprentices and gophers assisted me at the Palladium shows. But there isn’t a single instance in these memoirs where I lied. Except of course, that whole Tuinkhov thing. *Sigh* Only one petty larceny in all those years; I never pierced the professor from Gilligan’s Island. So crucify me. I was up front on what I couldn’t prove. Maybe someone discovered “Propping” over at the Gauntlet, independently, at the exact same time as me. It’s possible, who knows? I tried to stay positive when telling my story. I purposely avoided going into feuds and reliving cat fights. I saw that my personal sigil had indeed become the international symbol for body piercing. I learned the hard way that loose lips sink ships. My symbol can be found painted on most piercing shops in Europe. A bold, three ring circus, courtesy of Cliff Cadaver. I had the adventure of a lifetime, memories I’d never trade for anything. Even though some of them nearly killed me.
I never had my first tattoos fixed or removed. The ones I got at the Long Beach Pike in the winter of 1980. Before the wrecking ball made way for a respectable downtown expansion. Bert Grimm’s legendary shop razed for an Aquarium. I got a flaming death’s head with only three crossbones that set me back $35. And a reaper with black ribs and white shading for $80. I was eighteen; the artist was old, bifocaled, openly cocktailing. Knowing me, I probably tipped him. I never cut off the finger with Jill Jordan’s chop tatted on it, (right middle. Priceless). Every modification records a moment in time. A history of Cliff Cadaver. Personal trophies to prove I existed, and still live. I never felt one second of shame, ever. Never will. I traded in my fangs eons ago (…One thing about living in Green Valley I never could stomach…all the damn vampires…) for a set of platinum teeth. Dreadlocks, tattooed body suit, piercings, grill. Bib overalls. Bibbers? I am one weird hillbilly. Cliff Cadaver graduated with honors from the “UCLA Certificate Writer’s Program in Long and Short Fiction.” He’s currently preparing his novel “Silverfish Bugsuckers” for representation. He spends his days doing what he loves. It’s time for his motto: “Flow or Be Flowed Upon.”
Articles Back-Off Magazine, Volume 1, Number 5 “Get the Point; Your Piercing Questions Answered by Cliff Cadaver – The Thirteen Most Often Asked Body Piercing Questions” In the Flesh, Number One – A Hole New Magazine “Red Devil Studios, Cliff Cadaver” In the Flesh, Number One – A Hole New Magazine “The Pierced Penis; Sexual Supremacy, or Mutilation?”
Outlaw Biker Tattoo Review #31 “How to Make a Monster” Hustler, October 1994 “Penile Love Beads; Ancient Japanese Secret No More” Tattoo Savage, Number 7 “Cadaver’s Commandment #666; Apprentice to Perfection” Penthouse, June 1996 Janine Lindmulder of “Blondage” gives tongue piercing credit
Body Art, Issue 23 “Sex, Drugs, and Love Beads” In the Flesh, #5 “The Nasalang and Bobby Brady” In the Flesh, #7 “Brave New Implant”
Tear, Premiere Issue “Meet Me at Upgrade” Radio UCLA 530 AM “Trash Culture” KNAC Pure Rock 105.5 “Morning Show with Mike Stark” |
Hey, you all know the rules—Wednesday is Wangday here on ModBlog! Today’s entry into the pantheon is the music aficionado you see above, sporting an 11 mm. Prince Albert piercing through which he has threaded his standard issue Apple iPod earbuds and then proceeded to Midori himself nicely up with the rest of the cord. (For the completists, the iPod itself seems to be playing Finger Eleven’s “I’ll Keep Your Memory Vague.”) Warning: Neither BME nor Apple officially endorse this use of Apple products, and such use may void one’s warrantee.
I honestly don’t know what I like most about this photo of BobBert. Is it the great smile? The fancy newsboy cap? The discreet piercings shrouded by glorious facial shrubbery? (And, by extension, the opportunity to use my beloved hearty beards tag?) Maybe the fact that he’s beaming that grin because he’s about to get a Prince Albert piercing?
I’m going to say…all of the above. Is that allowed? Hey, I’m the editor here, you bet your ass it’s allowed.
See more in “Cheeks“ (Lip Piercing)
Hey, who doesn’t love Casual Fridays? After a week cooped up in some corporate monkey-suit, you finally get to let loose and hang out, as nature intended. Things may get a touch drafty, though. At any rate, click through to de-Phil.
See more in “PAs (Prince Alberts)“ (Male Genital Piercing) (members only)
I’m pretty confident that, as close as you may get to guessing this one, no one’s going to get it right on the nose … and no peeking at the tags, cheaters.
(That’d be Xenceval, sporting an 8 mm. Prince Albert, a few frenum piercings, and what appears to be a mustache fashioned out of black washable marker.)
See more in “PAs (Prince Alberts)“ (Male Genital Piercing) (members only)
Soon after I got my Prince Albert pierced, my girlfriend came up with the idea of drinking a float through it. So after waiting a few months for me to stretch far enough to allow a straw … this happened.
Click through to de-tree, of course.
(Palm tree photo used under “Attribution” provision of Creative Commons. Photo source: http://flickr.com/photos/blmurch/90778103/.)
See more in “PAs (Prince Alberts)“ (Male Genital Piercing) (members only)
Who doesn’t love casual Fridays?
(Photo courtesy of IAM: Pit.)
See more in “PAs (Prince Alberts)“ (Male Genital Piercing) (members only)
(Editor’s note: This article was first published on October 17, 2001, in The Point, the publication of the Association of Professional Piercers. Since part of BME’s mandate is to create as comprehensive and well rounded an archive of body modification as possible, we feel these are important additions.
Paul King, the article’s author, has given BME permission to publish a series of articles he wrote for The Point that explore the anthropological history behind many modern piercings. This is the first in that series.)
Male infibulation involves pulling the foreskin of the penis over the glans and piercing the foreskin through both sides, vertically or horizontally. In theory, this type of foreskin piercing secures the prepuce like a hood over the glans, making arousal painful and erection impossible. The procedure was usually performed with needle followed by thread until healed, at which point a ring or fibula pin would be directly inserted. (Sometimes, the “jewelry” would be inserted immediately after or as part of the piercing process.)
Ironically, in recent times the male foreskin piercing is usually performed to enhance aesthetics and pleasure. Most modern piercers find that typical foreskin piercings heal more quickly and with fewer complications when using barbells instead of rings.
Clear records of male infibulation can be found from twelfth century B.C.E. through fourth century C.E., then again from the seventeenth century C.E. until present. The practice seems to have fallen out of vogue for about 1,300 years in between; scanning western literature during that period, no references to the practice have been found. Then, in the latter part of 1715, Onania was published in London, and set into motion the journey of masturbation into the dark ages; this was “Patient Zero” in all religious rhetoric on the evils of “self-pollution.” The pamphlet (and the doctoral essays in the following generations that quoted from it) set the misconceptions that masturbation was injurious and evil and had to be stopped by whatever means — including piercing. The author remains anonymous.
Remember: The Arabs, Greeks and Romans were not prudes. They infibulated not for fear of sin, but out of superstition and control. They believed young singers’ voices could be kept pure and unchanged, that athletes and gladiators performed better chaste and, of course, slaves’ sex members needed to be controlled for breeding, protection from STDs, and the safety of non-slave women.
It seems that the resurgence of infibulation was most widely practiced in Germany around the end of the eighteenth century. Doctors Campe and Vogel felt piercing the flesh of the foreskin and, once healed, installing an iron ring was appropriate for “difficult cases.” Keep in mind, that these operations were performed non-consensually on children.
A few scientific heretics first appeared around 1875. They thought the evils of masturbation were exaggerated and that the medical operations were barbaric and ultimately ineffective. There were those whose rhetoric clung to the past, such as Freud and the Catholic Church. Then, however, the final nail was hammered in with the Kinsey Report of 1948, showing 92 percent of the population masturbated, thus closing the door on recorded incidences of medical infibulation in the western world. It is known that piercing continued in the SM (sado-masochistic) underground but, since SM was still considered a mental illness and illegal, records remain illusive.
As a footnote, it would seem logical that the “Prince Albert” was first practiced as a form of infibulation on circumcised men, however a clear cut example, describing the practice or of the use of the name Prince Albert, has not been traced prior to The Art of Pierced Penises and Decorative Tattoos by Doug Malloy. So far, American books on the history of circumcision (where the operation is widely practiced) have yielded no concrete references. Exploration of LGBT archives and the Leather Archives in Chicago — a museum dedicated to the Leather and SM communities — should be under taken for possible references prior to the 1970s. The smoking gun is out there — it just hasn’t been found.
A General Time Line
Twelfth century B.C.E.: Per Mensius, infibulation was at least in practice to the time of the siege of Troy. Chastity Safeguards by Anonymous.
Up to fourth century C.E.: Fragmented accounts given in the second century and after by Celsus and Oribasius, giving descriptions of the reasons and operation. Male Infibulation by Dingwall M.A.
Seventeenth century: Surgeon, Dionis, describes the “bouclement de garcons” (the male ring) piercing chastity during the reign of Louis XIV, written beginning of eighteenth century. Male Infibulation by Dingwall M.A.
Eighteenth century: Doctors such as Campe, Jaeger and Vogel support infibulation as a means to stop masturbation. Male Infibulation by Dingwall M.A.
1822: A detailed account of Dr. Marx’s encounter with a patient who had been infibulated several times appears in the Gazette de Sante.
1876-1892: Dr. Yellowees declared that he performed infibulation operations by passing metal safety pins through the foreskin. Masturbation, The History of a Great Terror by Jean Stengers and Anne Van Neck.
1910: “Self pollution: When everything else fails, we have no hesitation in recommending surgical treatment. This is of various kinds, from repeated blistering to that ancient operation which Latin writers tell was practiced upon singers of the Roman stage, called infibulation.” Know Thyself: Nature’s Secrets Revealed by Bishop Fallows and Dr. Truitt.
1926: Regarding prevention of masturbation: “Other physicians perforate the foreskin and introduce a ring.” The Sexual Life of Our Time by I. Bloch, M.D.
My usual disclaimer: I am not an anthropologist. From time to time, there will be errors. Please be understanding and forth coming if you have information you would like to share.
Please consider buying a membership to BME so we can continue bringing you articles like this one.
 |
| Photo Credit: Jerome Abramovitch / chapter9photography.com |
Three years ago, John Berg, now the president of marketing firm Taxi NYC, sent out the following message to the employees of another marketing firm, Bulldog New York:
It is with profound sadness that we inform you that Keith Alexander, Bulldog New York’s head of technology, lost his life in a bike accident last evening. Bicycling was one of Keith’s newest passions. Those who knew Keith well saw the intensity and the enthusiasm he threw at new things that excited him. As with most of his passions, Keith was way into bicycling and its technology, history, mysticism and how it’s done at the very highest level. He had become a huge Lance Armstrong fan. These past weeks I would receive several links daily about Lance’s prospects in the Tour de France. There is no question that Keith died as he lived, doing something he absolutely loved.
Keith was with us from the very beginning, committing himself to our success and was a steadfast presence helping us through the bumpy early days. We all loved Keith for his fiery determination, perfectionist qualities and huge heart. Bulldog New York will not be the same without him. We will miss him always.
On this, the third anniversary of his death, I’ve invited some of Keith’s friends and loved ones to share memories, stories, and to comment on their lives over the past three years.
* * *
It is very hard for me to believe that it has been three years already.
I’m not going to do the usual thing that people do on the anniversary of someone’s death and sit here telling stories about the person while they were still with us — there are plenty of other motherfuckers out there who will be better qualified to handle that angle for you.
Instead, I’m going to tell you all a little secret, so hold tight and check this out:
I don’t think a day goes by where I do not ask myself, “WWKAD?”
That’s right, I said it. “What would KA do?” It happens to me almost instantaneously, in any and every situation. Not long after KA was killed, my father was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Immediately, my mind raced to “WWKAD?” and I received the answer with the quickness: Drop it all and do the right thing by my father. And that is exactly what I did, no matter how hard or fucked up it was.
When I got back to NYC after my father’s death, I needed a job and fast. So, my mind pulled out “WWKAD?” and I did what he taught me (and countless others) to do: I sort of conned my way into a job I wasn’t all-the-way qualified for. Once ensconced in that job, I took the rest of the advice and gave myself 90 days to learn how to do that job better than anyone else had ever done before me.
And now?
Now I run that company’s entire East Coast operations, and I do it better than anyone else ever has.
This whole “WWKAD?” thing has pushed my monkey-ass to do everything I can to better myself every day. To no longer waste time and sit around feeling fucking sorry for myself when shit doesn’t necessarily go my way. Hell, if it wasn’t for “WWKAD?” I probably wouldn’t have got my act together and met my wife.
It’s as if I have this little audio clip stuck in the tiniest portion of my brain that comes rumbling out of the darkness whenever adversity dares to show itself to me, and that clip is Keith’s voice, telling me to push further, to work harder, to learn more.
I might not have know him as long as some, but the lessons he taught me will keep working that Brooklyn magic for the rest of my life.
And you can bank on that shit.
* * *
Keith Alexander was the kind of person that is difficult to sum up in a paragraph. Hell, anyone would be hard pressed to try and summarize Keith in a Dostoevsky-length novel. I can’t begin to describe who he was, what he meant to me as a friend, or even share an anecdote without feeling that it doesn’t do him justice. The impact he had on the people who knew him was incredibly deep and long-lasting. I’ve heard some people say he was an asshole, but that really wasn’t it — he was just a straight shooter from Brooklyn who didn’t take shit from anybody and wouldn’t let friends or acquaintances just sit back and whine when things didn’t go their way. He enjoyed a good-natured ball-busting. If you were his friend and something went wrong, though, he’d go out of his way and drop everything to make sure you were okay. And then once you were, he’d bust your balls about it.
I have learned lots of things from Keith, both from his life and from his death. From his life, I learned to never take shit from anybody, to look at things that others might see as setbacks as opportunities, and to bullshit my way through things I knew I could learn quickly. (One of Keith’s mantras: Give me 60 days, and I can learn it.) He encouraged me to take leaps of faith with my career, and it’s his encouragement that still drives me to take informed risks, like starting my own companies. From his death, I learned to never take anyone for granted, and not to ever put off things I wanted to do until later. Since he died, my relationships with my friends and family have gotten stronger, and I’ve strived to live every day to the fullest, just like he did.
* * *
Dee Snider was researching his movie Strangeland when he met Keith. While visiting Gauntlet NYC and perusing the shop, Keith recognized him almost immediately, introduced himself and, when he found out Snider was making a movie heavily related to piercing, he invited Snider to come watch him pierce a client, then and there. Snider’s first piercing experience? A Prince Albert.
“Thankfully,” Snider says, “Keith positioned himself between [the client and me], so at least I didn’t have to see this dude’s johnson.
“But Keith realized that, and told me to ‘scooch over’ so I could see the whole process.”
Though it was a bizarre occurrence, Snider says Keith’s bedside manner was stunning, so much so that he brought his six-month-old daughter, Cheyenne, to get her ears pierced by Keith. Snider, during the same visit, got his septum pierced, which went smoothly. As for Cheyenne’s piercings, though?
“He was so nervous,” Snider says, laughing, “the placement was all wrong. We ended up having to take them out and had a dermatologist redo them.”
Strangeland centered on a sadistic serial killer named Captain Howdy, played by Snider, who tortured his victims with bizarre body piercing techniques. Keith ended up serving as the film’s “piercing advisor,” a role Snider says Keith knew would draw backlash from the piercing community, and understandably — Snider admits that the character he created was borne from his own misconceptions.
“I thought it was a self-mutilation thing,” Snider says of body modification, “something done in anger, something done to make you less attractive.” But Keith’s guidance changed his view of the community, and made him realize one thing in particular: This movie was going to piss off a lot of people. Knowing this, Snider readjusted his focus and sought to drive home the fact that Captain Howdy was an outsider, that he was not a member of the community, and that he was a bad guy who was tarnishing the reputation of pierced and tattooed people.
Even still, Snider says, Keith knew people would fault him for his participation in the project, but he refused to compromise, refused to abandon the film.
“He wouldn’t be pressured by what the population thought,” Snider says of Keith. “I think that maybe he resisted because of the pressure — that if people didn’t get on his case about it, he wouldn’t have cared so much.”
The Many Faces of Keith Alexander
Once they became acquainted, Snider told Keith he was planning on putting a band together to do some touring and to play some old Twisted Sister songs. Keith, being a fan of Snider’s and a well known musician in his own right (he was a founding member of Carnivore and Primal Scream NYC), seemed like a natural fit, and the resulting band — Dee Snider’s Sick Motherfuckers — ended up being built around Keith. On their first tour, when the tour bus hit Brooklyn to pick up Keith, he was dressed entirely in bright yellow. Says Snider,
“This was the ‘yellow tour.’ We showed up, and he was wearing this yellow rain slicker, yellow hat, yellow everything. He looked like a yellow version of the Michelin Man. And he was as into technology as he was into yellow, apparently, so he had matching yellow walkie-talkies for us all, yellow CD players, everything. It was weird, but we went with it, because that was Keith.”
When they came to pick up Keith for the next tour, he had “dropped 50 pounds, cut off all his hair and got a military cut. He looked like a fucking marine! But he was so passionate about these things, nobody would ever question it.”
On the last tour Keith did with the band, he decided on another gimmick — one ostensibly more practical than the last.
“That was the ‘poncho tour,’” Snider says, laughing. “Keith had somehow decided that the poncho was the single greatest accessory a man could wear. It was the most utilitarian item possible. It was warmth, it was comfort, it was a port in a storm, it was everything.
“So we showed up in Brooklyn to pick him up for the tour, and there he was, wearing shorts, sandals, a cowboy hat and a poncho. He looked absolutely ridiculous.”
* * *
If you ever went into a body modification-related online chat room prior to July 2005, you would have undoubtedly witnessed what seemed like an attack on someone with a question. The attacker would have been Keith. The secret to all of that vitriol? He was trying to make you think for yourself. He wasn’t just trying to be rude or mean — he was trying to help you learn. People thought he was just being vicious, but the truth of the matter is that he was the ultimate mentor.
Keith was — and, in some sense, still is — my greatest teacher.
The last three years have been hard. Not a single day goes by that I don’t think about him. I have had many accomplishments and joy since he has been gone. I changed my career, I had a beautiful baby boy whom we named Alexander, and I continue to have a happy marriage with my amazing husband. I have wonderful friends that I hold close and love.
All of those things? Keith has been there every step of the way. Whispering in my ear: “You can do it,” Look it up and learn it, you will be teaching them in six months,” “Don’t let anyone else tell you what you can and cannot do,” “Live happy and surround yourself with great things.” All of his years of encouragement and teaching, and being my cheerleader (OK — that’s an amusing visual) are still with me.
You see, Keith’s physical presence may be gone, and trust me, it is a huge, huge void in my life, but he is still with me every day. Cheering me on, encouraging me to learn and grow and challenge.
I hope I can teach my son to be the kind of man Keith was. I hope I can teach him the things that Keith taught me. If I can do that — and I will do that; Keith would accept no less — then I can pass on the strength and the confidence that will allow him to become the great man I know he will be.
I still miss Keith so much every day.
* * *
Weeks back, I committed to the task of transferring an aging VHS tape to a more secure digital file. I knew it wouldn’t be the easiest thing in the world to do, but the thought of anything happening to this footage was worth the emotional ramifications. As I slid back in my chair and pushed play, my screen filled with the image of a grinning Keith Alexander. Hair farmer-era Keith. Rock star Keith. Freeze-framed as I fumbled with my questionably obtained editing program, I found myself making eye contact with him.
My first thought wasn’t how much I missed Keith. It was that were he here, he’d be making fun of me for still owning a VCR. He’d likely also be making fun of me for the music I was listening to. And quite possibly my haircut. Or for any number of reasons known only to him. Then he’d tell me he loved me.
As the years pass without Keith around, I don’t know which I miss more: Him breaking my balls (and trust me, my balls were never so expertly broken by anyone else), or him telling me he loved me.
Both have been done, in varying degrees, by scores of others in the three years since he was taken from us, but no one else seems to be able to do them both at the same time with the same effect. No one makes me so succinctly aware of both my wins and my losses in life. No one calls up ex-girlfriends of mine while drunk on Akvavit and tells them he hates them, hanging up as suddenly as he called in a torrent of insane giggling.
I tried to compress my thoughts on Keith into a few tidy paragraphs. Stories culled from memories shared by those of us lucky enough to have known him closely are plentiful. But try as I might, I couldn’t summarize a light so bright in my admittedly limited prose. I can only say that I’m a better man for having known him.
I take comfort in those stories, in the video I transferred, in the remnants of the scar he was kind enough to give me. I take comfort in the fact that he documented every idea that popped in his head via his nootrope.net site and that it’s still online for us to read. Most of all, I take comfort in knowing that through him, people were able to find something in themselves, something primal and beautiful, and share it with the rest of the world.
“Maybe I’ll inspire you to be exactly who you want to be.
Maybe you’ll call me a fool.”
– Keith Alexander
November 23, 1963 – July 11, 2005
For Jordan’s memorial for Keith, click here.
