EDITOR'S COMMENT—November 2001

I miss Hanky Panky. I miss the way he would come up behind me at a tattoo convention and kick me in the pants. The last time he did it, I went about two feet in the air and crashed against the reception desk at the hotel in Richmond. In Tokyo he attacked my right shoulder with such force that we had to be separated by the dutiful Louise. People told me that beating me to a pulp meant he liked me. I guess Henk doesn't show up at U.S. events like he used to. I miss Hanky Panky.

I miss Permanent Mark. When I was first learning the ropes at Skin & Ink, P.M. was there to give suggestions and point the way in that calm, confident voice of his. P.M. was a traveling kind of guy, always on the road, hobnobbing with his buddies from the four corners of the world. The last time I saw him was at his Tokyo show in '99, proving just how smart and dedicated to the art he was. I miss Permanent Mark.

I miss Zeke Owen. Ever since Zeke stopped writing his column, Ask Zeke, life hasn't been the same. I used to look forward to our two-hour phone calls and the fabulous stories about his exploits. Sure, it wasn't easy wringing a cassette tape out of the Zekemeister, but when the postman brought me that manila envelope containing three hours of off-the-cuff, uncensored reminiscences and cracker-barrel philosophy, it was pure Zeke. There's never been a storyteller like him. I miss Zeke Owen.

I miss the Aotearoa contingent; all those burly guys from New Zealand. There was such a special energy around Gordon Toi, Inia Taylor, Tamiti Hunt, Manu Neho and Laurie (Te Te Rangi Takuku Kaihoro to his friends). But times have changed, and they don't call their friend Baxter anymore. Blame it on Pacific Island Time, blame it on the trade winds; I just don't hear from them anymore. I miss the Aotearoa contingent.

I miss Joe Vegas. Way back when I first became Editor, a bunch of us used to meet at Body Electric on a weeknight, bag some alfresco linguini at the nearby Italian restaurant and talk over story ideas. It was Joe's idea to rent a Lincoln Continental and drive to tattoo shops all over middle America, armed only with a flash, a couple cameras and a tape recorder. "We'll call it the Heartland Tour and blow into town wearing Mexican wrestler masks and capes." I miss Joe Vegas.

I miss Paulo Suluape. I miss the amazing influence this man had in bringing the traditional, time-honored skills to divergent artists scattered throughout the Pacific. I miss the feeling of respect and awe this man brought to the world of tattooing. I miss the excitement of meeting him for the first time, a few short months before his life ended so tragically. Because of Paulo, I decided to go to Samoa for the first time. I'll never forget sitting and playing guitar with him and his son Laga on the starlit beach at Manase. The memory is as fresh as yesterday. I miss Paulo Suluape.

—Bob Baxter, Editor in Chief