THE PHILADELPHIA TATTOO
ARTS CONVENTION-
THE TRIUMPHANT RETURN OF CRAZY EDDIE
By Bob Baxter
Photographs by Bernard Clark

The first time I came to Philadelphia was for Crazy Eddie Funk's "first and only" retirement party, an extravagant gathering of the nation's top tattoo artists. But that was not the end of Eddie Funk. Over the next few years, Eddie retired about a half dozen additional times. There were four more farewell conventions that I know of.

The years zipped by and, this time, Eddie was almost down for the count. With only a 20 percent chance of survival, the tattoo legend from Philly recently underwent quadruple bypass heart surgery and a valve replacement. Could that have anything to do with Eddie's signature highball glass in each hand? Or the perennial cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth? Of course not. Nothing as mundane as liquor or nicotine could put this giant of the industry down. In fact, when I walked into the ballroom last Friday, Eddie was back among 'em, sitting astride a nifty battery-powered scooter replete with power steering and disk brakes.

"Ya know, Bob," he said, ironically, as his wife Penny leaned over the control panel to turn down the speed switch four notches, "I'm dyin' for a smoke and a drink."

Those who know him best told me, "Eddie really looked bad a couple weeks ago." But the other night, a mere four weeks after his surgery, the man genteel society now refers to as "Philadelphia Eddie" looked terrific. His eyes sparkled and his cheeks were rosy. And best of all, the old sense of humor was hitting on all eight cylinders. I hadn't seen Eddie in a few years but, to me, he looked younger and better than ever. He was weak as a pup, but ready to take on the world. On Sunday, in fact, I saw Penny astride her own electric scooter, getting the worst of it in a game of head-on bumper cars with her recuperating hubby.

This weekend, the convention was run by Troy Timpel from Tattooed Kingpin, and, even on Friday night (a time that is usually dead and the tattoo artists mostly stand around and gossip), the aisles were crowded and machines were buzzing. Troy has been tattooing for 14 years and helped Eddie run his shows, back in the day. When Eddie retired from tattooing, he sold one of his shops to Timpel and now Troy runs the events by himself, along with a new event he started in Milwaukee, in October of 2005.

"I do a lot of advertising," Timpel told me. "Every newspaper in town has done a story on us and we bought lots of radio spots." That, plus the popularity of tattooing has significantly increased. What with two major tattoo reality programs on TV, tattooing is accepted like never before. And it shows.

The venue was the Wyndham Hotel at the Franklin (that's Benjamin Franklin, in case you didn't know) Plaza in downtown Philadelphia. I had an excellent room with plenty of towels and a view of the local skyscrapers. There were lots of efficient elevators, a staff that knew what was what and an enormous lobby with spectacular, high ceilings, a couple of restaurants and a happening bar. Outside the door of the main convention hall (Up the escalator on the B-level), were several, strategically-place vendors and a designated 30 x 15-foot smoking area designed for dyed in the wool puffers. Smoking was not allowed in the tattooing area, so anyone who needed to light one up was restricted to this odd oasis amid the food and T-shirt concessions.

Once inside the grand hall, I took a quick look around and recognized a few familiar faces: Joe Capobianco, Mark Longnecker, Tom Painter and Jason McCarty, Corey Kruger, Big Gus and Eddy Reyes from Demented Image in Los Angeles, Gene Ramirez from Albuquerque, Dana Helmuth, Joe Leonard from Monkey Wrench in Santa Rosa, Horiyu from Japan, Dave Martinez, Jason Guy, Chad Koeplinger and the vendors, Wendy Belzel, Debbra MacDonald from Imp Ink, Blake Carr and my friend Andy Gore from Satan's Sideshow (selling his usual serial killer posters and Charles Manson T-shirts). I was especially pleased that the Penn Jersey She Devils and the Philly Roller Girls had booths and were spreading the word about the current roller derby invasion. Go, girls! But one of my favorite faces belonged to Stanley Moskowitz from the old Bowery days in New York City. We only had a minute (someone was whisking him off for a cup of black coffee), but there was time for a quick hug and a reprimand of, "Hey, Bob, why doesn't SKIN&INK do a story about me? I have piles of great stuff you can publish. You better get me now, I might not be around much longer!"

Hey, stop talking like that, Stan. By the way, the two of us spent a couple hours gabbing together about east coast tattoo history over the next three days, and it was a kick to hear his stories about inkdom's early years. Article to follow.

It was also fun to see Enigma (the guy with the blue puzzle-piece tattoos over every inch of his trim body) and, of course, the ubiquitous Lyle Tuttle. As we greeted each other, someone from the stage was lauding the celebrities in attendance and pointed out that, "Lyle Tuttle worked in the circus sideshows for over 20 years."

"A pack of lies," mumbled Tuttle, as he launched into a series of amusing counter-anecdotes.

So far, it was a terrific show, but, as is too often the case, someone forgot to tell the terrible rock bands to stay home. Mostly of the shriek-as-loud-as-you-can variety (I won't trouble you with the names), all they did was fill the hall with unintelligible lyrics and a cacophony of misguided guitar riffs that made talking (or thinking, for that matter) almost impossible. I just don't get it. You create an event to bring the best available artists together in one spot, and then you blast them out with sound. I presume it's all done to give the ticket buyers added value for their money, but what you do is subtract from the value of the show itself. Sure, a handful of beer-toting groupies were toasting to puberty in front of the bandstand, but the folks that are serious about tattooing were forced to grin and bare it or flee to the relative quiet of the lobby.

Saturday was a mob scene. Lots of positive energy. The aisles were jammed, the line waiting to buy tickets filled the lobby in front of the elevators (it was raining outside), the various food and drink vendors were doing a brisk business and the designated smoking area was packed.

I've been to tattoo events where a couple drops of rain kept everyone home, but here in Philadelphia, the crowd seemed more dedicated than at other conventions, at least according to several bystanders. On the other hand, there weren't a great number of big names at this show, certainly not as many as in the old days, when Eddie brought in artists from all over the world. Back then, going to a Crazy Eddie show was a chance to hobnob with the legends that we read about in books. Yes, Troy Timpel made sure there were a lot of excellent artists in attendance (117 booths worth), but I didn't recognize many of their names. Maybe it's because they keep below the radar, haven't won much national recognition or just work locally. In any case, I wish artists would wear "Hi My Name Is" badges, so we all knew who each other are. Faces we remember. Names are more difficult.

But I guess it doesn't make any difference. There's so many shows nowadays that a successful promoter doesn't have a problem renting booths. Eddie and Lyle and Stanley Moskowitz, there used to be 20 or 30 guys with that kind of legendary status at these shows. Traveling to see them was like having an audience with the Queen of England. But that's not to fault successful shows like this. Here, the focus is on tattooing. The crowd doesn't care about the lack of old-timers and happily turns out to see the new, emerging talent in the business. Times they are a'changing, that's for sure. At least one legend was in attendance: Chris Longo was the onstage M.C. And best of all for the artists, most everyone was busy.

Another good thing about this show is the proximity to downtown Philadelphia. Right out the door were many spectacular buildings and historic sites and, oh boy, oh boy, you are only a short, invigorating jog from the famous Rocky Steps, where Sylvester Stallone made his name. Plus, the Reading Terminal Market is just five-minutes away at 12th and Filbert (the hotel is on 17th). What a treat for the eyes. There's plenty to see and buy, from fresh lobster to chow mien and chocolate truffles. I especially liked the stalls run by the Amish, with their traditional garb and polite manners. Let's face it, it's wonderful being right in the middle of town.

So, the Philly convention is jammed with people and there's over 100 artist booths, just like the monster shows springing up on the west coast. But why is this particular tattoo event head and shoulders above those in California with their 250 booths and 25,000 people through the gate? Is it the fact that the Philadelphia promoters are from the tattoo world and the others are not? Is it because this part of the U.S. has more educated tattoo fans? Perhaps, but a lot of it has to do with the venue. For example, there's wall-to-wall carpet on the floor. A big factor when you have to be on your feet all day. And the event is held in a beautiful, efficient hotel with elegant rooms for the participants right upstairs. There's a bar in the lobby with plenty of places to sit and chat with friends. Plus dozens of restaurants within a block or two. There's no comparison between Timpel's event held in a classy hotel and some barn-like structure designed for auto shows and shit-kickin' rodeos. Hey, you promoters out there, these are world-class tattoo artists, not horses and cows (or sheep). To me, it's all about actual, demonstrated respect, not just lip service. A state of mind much in evidence at the Wyndham.

Yeah, the sound system stunk. Yeah, the bands were terrible. But they turned the sound down on the second day, dumped the bands and brought in some cool sideshow acts. Yeah, it rained, but no one cared. Why? Because it was fun. It was comfortable. It was raucous and, for one glorious weekend, Troy Timpel brought back the glory days. Once again, we were at the center of the tattoo universe. Right there in the home of the cheesesteak, Philadelphia, U.S.A. This is Crazy Eddie's town. And you just can't ask for better than that.