How Josh Single-Handedly Destroyed His Band's Reputation As Philly's Least-Tattooed Band: A (single) Photo Essay

It all started in the car on the way home from a gig. Having just played the Pillar Lounge in Reading, PA, we were driving home (or more accurately, Dan was driving) and Dio's 1983 classic Holy Diver was the album of choice. Because you are the driver. You own the road. Somehow, we got into a discussion about the merits of Ronnie James Dio vs. Ozzy Osbourne, and after having the Internet prove that Dio is in fact several years older than Ozzy, I also informed everyone that Dio was suffering from stomach cancer. His website indicated that the chemotherapy was working, the treatments were becoming less frequent, and Dio had plans to return to touring with Heaven & Hell (a reformation of the Dio-era Black Sabbath) as soon as he was better. Offhand, I mentioned that if Dio should for some insane reason NOT survive, that I intended to get a memorial tattoo to commemorate his life, and his impact on mine.

Sure enough, two weeks later, Dan calls me to break the news: Ronnie James Dio had lost his battle with the dragon. He was 67. Right then, I remembered I had a promise to keep.

Over drinks (because Dio was DEAD, dammit!), I told my ladyfriend about my vow, and that I intended to keep it. After some discussion, we settled on ground rules: no colors, and no birth/death dates. I said I'd sleep on it to see if I really wanted to go through with it, and I did a bit of research to find the perfect place. Thanks to the good folks at Yelp, I chose Olde City Tattoo on 2nd and Chestnut. When I woke up this morning, I was still committed. And off I went. But before that, I printed out a graphic of the Dio band logo.

Interesting side note: If you look at the logo upside down and don't mind that some letters run together, it reads "devil".

I drove up to Olde City around 1:30, parked, and went into the shop. I was greeted by a very lovely young woman named Jamie, who took my printout, got all the necessary details, and scheduled me for 6:30 that night. Appropriately enough, I heard Black Sabbath's Heaven And Hell playing on the stereo, which was a good enough omen for me. A little bummed that I'd have to wait, I returned home and did some laundry, assorted household chores, etc. I just hoped I could maintain my excitement until then, although the $40 cash deposit helped to ensure that.

I returned at the appointed time and met Smitty, a large, imposing, and heavily tattooed individual who would also be my artist for the evening. He led me to the chair and gloved up, then sterilized my shoulder and shaved the area. He applied what I can only describe as a temporary tattoo tracing of the design to my shoulder, checked the placement, then had me look at it in the mirror. Satisfied with its location, we began some of the longest minutes of my life.
He removed a fresh fine point needle attachment from a sterile bag, hooked it up to the power supply, and started with the outline of the letters. It was not as painful as I had imagined, mostly like getting a series of very tiny shots again and again. Certain areas were more painful, but overall very bearable. The fine point work took about 25 minutes, at which time he let the work rest and applied some salve which changing to the larger shading needle. I hadn't been watching much, because really, who wants to see themselves getting stabbed repeatedly for any length of time, but I glanced down now. I was so far pleased with the progress. It actually looked good as it was, and I thought about stopping there, but I decided against it. If Dio could handle stomach cancer for six months, I could deal with something poking me for a little while longer.

Smitty began the shading, which was MUCH more painful than the fine work. The process is the same as shading on a piece of paper, except it's your damn arm. This part only took 20 minutes, thankfully. I had been taking Smitty's advice to keep breathing, and it definitely paid off here. After a while, you sort of tune the pain out and focus on the Van Halen record on the radio. The shading completed, Smitty applied a heavy coat of ointment, and let me take a look on the mirror. My first reaction: "DIO!" Second: "This is for real-real now." Smitty put a bandage on it, gave me the care instructions (and a free sample bottle of Lubriderm to keep it moisturized), I gave him $60 more dollars, and said goodbye.

As I headed home, all I could think about was what I had just done to myself, and how the damn thing was starting to burn. Upon arrival, I lifted my shirt to show my ladyfriend and discovered that the tattoo was bleeding much more than I expected. I dutifully left the bandage on the requisite two hours, then washed it off and put some Lubriderm on. At this point 4 hours later, it's just a little itchy, and still bleeding lightly. So how'd it turn out? Was it worth the 45 minutes of Lilliputian spearing? And the possible loss of this T-shirt? Take a look for yourself.

You're damn right it was.

I'll miss you, Dio. But your music will live on in my heart, and your sweet sweet logo on my arm.

RONNIE JAMES DIO
1942-2010