APP 2005 - LAS VEGAS [The Present Tense

WEDNESDAY
Dawn breaks too soon after a night of heavy drinking and heavier conversation.
While getting dressed after a potentially hazardous still-drunk shower experience, it occurred to me that I hadn’t been leaving tips for the maid, and I began to worry; do you tip a maid every day? How much do you tip one? (I’d seen this discussed on Seinfeld, but the conclusion they had reached escaped me at the time.) Was she going to neatly tuck a horse’s head into my bed? I was about to lose it. In a typically neurotic move, I left a ten-dollar bill and a note apologizing for my delinquency on the nightstand, then quickly skirted my way down the hall — avoiding eye contact at all costs — and leapt into the elevator, regretting pretty much everything I’d ever done in my life up to that point.
One of the unfortunate things about the APP convention is that, due to the large number of courses and seminars being offered — many being held simultaneously — it’s impossible to catch them all. Granted, some are more interesting or pertinent than others to different people, but no matter what the subject matter was, you always end up feeling like you just missed out on something. (I’m only mentioning this because, as long-winded and banal as this review is, it is far from comprehensive and is, in fact, excluding details of many classes that I’m sure were excellent, but that I simply could not attend.)
After meeting up with Shannon in the lobby of the convention area, he informed me that we were under strict orders from Rachel to go rent tuxedos for the following evening’s Prom Night banquet dinner, which we agreed sounded like about as much fun as a case of rickets. Scrambling, we feverishly sought out a way to delay the inevitable awkward compliments we’d feel forced to pay each other as we tried on the damned things. While there were no classes scheduled to begin for another two and a half hours, as luck would have it, the meeting for international attendees had been pushed back from Sunday evening to this exact timeslot! This was something we’d both wanted to see to begin with, and the impeccable timing made it too much to pass up.

Ron Garza (USA) and Brenno (Italy), and Spain’s Sandrine
Set up essentially as a roundtable and intended to garner information about the various battles, successes and failures the piercing industry is experiencing abroad, the meeting featured industry professionals from Holland, England, Germany, Spain, France, Italy, Australia, Norway (the aforementioned H�ave and Christiane), as well as the APP’s sole international member, Danny Yerna of Mexico City’s Wakantanka studio. While worldwide legislation and acceptance is still widely varied — for example, in parts of England, female genital piercings have been banned outright, while in Australia, conversely, one may find 15 year olds actually performing genital piercings — the general consensus was that the APP needed to branch out globally. Due to language barriers and the degree of variation in the laws from country to country though, attempting to replicate the organization’s standards and ideals in each nation would be a suicidal task at best. A popular alternative, however, was to allow international participants to establish rules and regulations that were feasible for application in their respective countries — while still maintaining the highest standards possible — and letting the APP act as a sort of umbrella organization (to be there as a reference guide, library, and support net). That said, the only official non-American member is, again, Danny Yerna from Mexico City, who has managed to run a successful APP-approved shop in a city that is, in a lot of ways, an economic catastrophe; Wakantanka, though, is literally more sanitary than many medical offices in Mexico City, so one could say that Danny is something of an over-achiever in his town — not that that’s a bad thing!
No formal conclusions were reached during the hour-long meeting. The fact that there is undoubtedly support across the globe for what the APP preaches was consistently illustrated, though everybody realized that — in spite of the unprecedented success of Mr. Yerna — it is simply unrealistic to expect people all over the world to adopt practices to mimic what the APP is trying to achieve in the United States. There seemed to be a steady foundation laid though; it was clear that the next task was for those in attendance to initiate interest in this sort of organization in their respective countries, at which point an effort to truly expand the APP internationally could be made, with perhaps the added option of adjustments to properly suit each individual nation.
As the meeting came to an end, Shannon and I grimaced as we prepared to climb into a pair of likely oft-worn tuxedos, approaching the mission with about as much enthusiasm as we would a colonoscopy flambé. As luck would have it, we ran into Sean Christian on our way out, who was also in need of a gown for the ball. Together, the three of us set out on the town.
(To follow up on my misgivings with Sean, they were absolutely unfounded. It was like he was a three-legged dog; I didn’t know how to deal with him at first, but after spending a bit of time together, it became obvious that he was just very friendly and mostly harmless, and I felt silly for having a problem in the first place.)
This was my first exposure to the early-afternoon sun in Las Vegas, and it was just a killer. I’m fairly certain the temperature was topping out at roughly 130 degrees, but as they say, at least it was a dry heat — which seems kind of like the meteorological equivalent of saying that a homely girl has a good personality.
Unsure of exactly where we were headed, we took a detour through the nearby Sahara casino, recently outfitted with a brand new NASCAR theme. I don’t get it — how did NASCAR get so popular? Do the people who really enjoy it just not have highways where they live? I’ve already given it more thought than it deserves. Upon receiving directions from the bell desk, we ventured back outside into the desert heat and quickly found the tuxedo rental shop, vacant save for its staff of appropriately pandering employees. Now, it’s a fact that every item of formalwear I’ve ever worn has been a hand-me-down, I never learned to tie a tie, and have literally only worn one less than ten times in my life; suffice it to say, I’m infinitely more of a dirty jeans and black t-shirt kind of guy. Furthermore, as a result of my deeply ingrained proletariat fashion sense, I never acquired a taste for what constitutes “nice”, per se, and proceeded to choose my threads by way of what was essentially a game of “pin the tail on the designer suit”. Settling on what I was told was an excellent choice, the resident seamstress — brimming with palaver — took my measurements and delivered my garments from the back room. I can barely take myself seriously in a sweater without a hood, much less a tuxedo. Shannon and Sean were considerably less maladjusted and insane about the whole ordeal than I was, and we were soon on our way back to the Riviera.

Pat Tidwell
Sitting at the Splash Bar when we returned was Pat Tidwell (IAM:Pat_Tidwell), who told us that we had just missed a near-fight! As it turned out, one of the shiftless rejects from the dart convention had approached Pat in mid-conversation and began loudly declaring him to be too freaky and too gay to be in Vegas — is that even possible? Anyway, Pat, not terribly concerned with this gentleman’s assertions, pointed out that he was in the middle of speaking to someone who wasn’t missing a chromosome or three and would appreciate it if he just left him alone. Not content with simple verbal harassment though, Bubba escalated things by threatening to hit Pat — his wife wasn’t around to beat, I guess — which finally prompted police intervention and, of course, Bubba’s eventual denial of everything that had just transpired.
Rachel and Jen showed up to the bar shortly after, and while Shannon and Rachel were off to go see a magic show, I figured I’d take some time to check out the jewelry exposition. With subtlety usually reserved for murder-suicides and KISS concerts, Rachel asked if I was going to be buying any new jewelry for my septum piercing — a follow-up question to a conversation that had never existed.
Well, I guess I was now.
With a brand new complex in tow and my tendency to bend over for any female with a pulse on shameful display, I made my way to the expo area. I didn’t know if it had just been a while since I’d bought any piercing jewelry or if companies had adjusted their prices for the convention, but I was shocked at how affordable everything was. While making my rounds, I ended up grabbing a size-range of Kaos silicone jewelry and a few pieces from Gorilla Glass, but couldn’t find anything for my nose. Not particularly bothered by this, I took a closer look at some of the booths, which ranged from the high-class Anatometal and Custom Steel sections to some borderline no-name knock-off vendors, selling jewelry of questionable quality by the handful at slave labor prices.

One of the more bizarre booths belonged to the Desert Palms Emu Ranch, who were selling — you guessed it — emu oil. Apparently, emu oil is excellent for healing wounds and moisturizing skin, and is supposedly an ideal healing agent for piercings and tattoos. Making an incredible effort to ignore all of my usual smart-ass impulses, I asked — with legitimate curiosity — precisely how one would go about extracting oil from an emu, and exactly what benefits this substance possessed over other, less hilarious-sounding products. While the extraction method was less exciting than I’d hoped, the oil itself was essentially described as one of God’s great gifts to humankind; without clogging your pores, it’s supposed to relieve you of itching and burning, act fast for healing difficult scar tissue (and other skin conditions), condition your hair, and can even be used as a sexual lubricant! I suppose I didn’t look convinced, so the woman I was speaking to placed a few drops on the back of my hand to let me see for myself. I chose not to test its lubricant properties at the time, and while I can’t say for certain whether my pores felt clogged afterwards or not, I’d wager that there was likely at least some validity to her claims. That said, as I was uninformed of the legalities of bringing essential animal oils across the Mexican border, I politely declined to purchase any.
One complaint I had about the setup of the exposition was that there was an entire other section of exhibitors and vendors — including Gauntlet Enterprises and Cold Steel — upstairs in the Sky Boxes, which were not advertised nearly enough in my opinion, and may have very well been missed out on by a number of people. A shame, too; in addition to some wonderful jewelry (I even found a nice segment ring for my septum), the artifacts on display in Gauntlet’s section were spectacular. Among them, a complete set of original PFIQ issues, as well as three pieces of original, full-sized artwork by PFIQ artist Bud Larsen — all of which were for sale via silent auction. While the items all found good homes in the end, I couldn’t help but think that many people who would have appreciated the items’ significance didn’t even get a chance to see them.

Sombreroed Levi
My evening at the bar consisted of wonderful conversation with Levi (IAM:Fuck You Very Much), Tiffany (IAM:MissTiffany1) and her husband Matt (IAM:Matte), and the less-intimidating-than-you’d-think Steve Haworth (IAM:Steve Haworth) — just a murderer’s row of excellent people. For a trip that had had me worried on several levels initially — including actually getting along with anyone — I found myself slightly depressed that there was really only one day left.

Steve Haworth (right) and accomplices
Not everybody who comes to the APP conventions attends the classes and seminars — many come just to see friends and colleagues. Overhearing casual conversations between old friends though, and seeing newcomers brought into the fold — it’s impossible to argue that there is no virtue in this approach. While the information taught in the classroom is of technical importance, when you assemble a group of people whose common bond, beyond occupation, is that they are to some extent outsiders in society ... well, you get to hear some terrific stories.
I retired to my room at a much more modest hour than the night before. Accompanied by a splitting headache, I found myself watching a Married...With Children marathon until an embarrassing hour, and came to the sad conclusion that the show was considerably funnier when I was too young to actually understand the jokes. The more I thought about it, the less I missed not having TV at home.

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A recent acquisition from the illustrious, high-profile world of low-budget sporting-goods photography, Jordan Ginsberg is a Toronto native. Born affiliated to the Levi tribe, Jordan renounced his religion shortly before his Bar Mitzvah but still believes he is entitled to a role in the liberal Jew-run media and sees BME as an ideal stepping stone. Votes left, throws right.
Article copyright © 2005 BMEZINE.COM. First published May 17th, 2005 in La Paz, BCS, Mexico. Requests to reprint must be confirmed in writing.