Angry Ink

YOUR MOM

I love my mom. And I'm sure you love your mom. And I've tattooed a lot of moms and I love them as well. One of my favorite clients EVER is the textbook definition of a mom. She looks like someone who would be friends with my mom. She comes off like someone who would be on the church council and who makes good meatloaf...and then you notice the tattoos on her hands. I adore her, and I think part of that is because she reminds me a bit of  my mom; gray, softened, grandmotherly. Only she is covered in tattoos,  they're all over her hands, her arms, and she is talking about doing her neck. It's just such a shock and I love people who defy convention. Moms like that are awesome. We've tattooed her, her husband and her son, and they are just an awesome bunch.

Not all moms are like that, of course, and I meet a lot of moms who only have a few little hidden tattoos, or none at all. And they like come to the shop with their kids, and they're curious and they're nice, and we don't mind them one bit. I think it's a little odd, though, bringing your mother along while you get tattooed, but it seems most kids are doing that nowadays. My mother wouldn't be caught dead in a tattoo shop. She's pretty much over her initial horror and embarassment over what I do for a living, and reality TV was what broke her down. Don't get me started on those stupid shows. I hate them more than I hate blisters. But if they made my mother feel it was finally okay to stop lying to people about what I do for a living, then fine. When she first found out I had a tattoo, she lost it. She cried and yelled and didn't even want to look at me. I don't even want to get into what happened when I told her I was apprenticing as a tattoo artist. To this day, I cannot fathom ever having brought my mother along for any of my tattoos. Granted, that was a different time, tattoos were not as socially acceptable as they are now. Parents didn't like that their kids got tattoos, kids got tattoos to piss off their parents. Nowadays, parents get their kids gift certificates for tattoos as birthday and Christmas presents. Then the parents come along  to the shop and watch the whole thing take place, they take pictures and it's some big family bonding experience. Like I said, I don't really get it, but whatever. They like our shop, they like my work, we're keeping busy and that's what I'm after. I still can't help but feel a touch of melancholy that the rebelliousness has been sucked out of tattoos and that the dangerous mystery of it all is long gone.  But, once upon a time, a woman cutting her hair short or a man wearing an earring was extremely shocking, so every rebellious thing gets the edges blunted off over time, I suppose.

The one thing I cannot abide by, boys and girls, is the angry moms. We see a lot of them and I've had it up to the top of my lumpy head with this. Let me remind you of one very important fact: In just about every place on Earth, you must be 18 to get a tattoo. It's the law where I live and it is the law for most of the country, as well as in other countries to which I have traveled. There is no need for parental presence in our shop. A parent's signature is not a requirement for a tattoo in any place I have ever worked, because in every place I have ever worked, you must be 18 to be tattooed. We tattoo adults, not minors, not kids, I belive I have already covered this ground in more than one posting. So if you have brought your mom, and I will say 'mom' because they outnumber dads about two hundred to one in these instances, keep your mom on a leash.

Let me explain myself. Most people who bring mom do so because they want her engaged in the process. They ask what she thinks, they ask where they should get it, and occasionally, she pays for the tattoo.  Like I said, this is my job and I don't get paid to sit and play with my phone. If having your mom with you will get you into my chair, so be it. But recall that I do not need your mom's authorization before I am legally allowed to put my hands on you. You are an adult, doing something that adults do, and I'm not going to abide your mom treating me like I am her child. I am not going to abide your mom shit-talking me, the shop, or my industry. I didn't get into tattooing to make moms happy. My career choice made my own mother cry. While that made me feel bad, I was a big kid and I was getting into something I really was excited and passionate about. So, if I'm willing to upset my own mother and garner her disapproval in order to live my dreams, I can't say I'm terribly concerned about your mother's disapproval, either on your part or on mine.

I had been meaning to write about this for a while, but the last straw came a few weeks back. Believe it or not, I'm actually pretty patient and polite in real life. I know, you wouldn't get that from reading this blog. I come off like a raging dickbag, and I won't deny that for a second. But I can turn it on and off like a lightswitch, and that is part of my success in this industry. I can be polite, calm and professional in the face of people acting like total assholes, abusive pricks and big, whiny babies. I keep my game face on at the shop, then I vent about it in this stupid-ass blog. People seem to like reading it, so I guess I'll keep on going. But I digress.

I no longer felt the need to be polite when my game face got slapped by someone's mom, whose presence was not necessary for me to do my job. I can't say that in the future I will continue to be polite to other moms who feel they have license to crap on me bcause they don't agree with their adult childrens' decisions. Recently, a young girl came in for her first tattoo, nothing elaorate, but it meant a lot to her and she was a really nice kid. I called her back to my chair but she hesitated, saying, "I'm waiting for my mom.....because.....she's.....a controlling mother." Danger, Will Robinson.....I asked her, partly joking but mostly serious, "Uh oh--she's not gonna bust my balls the whole time about this, is she?" The girl gave me a weary look and shrugged. Great. My stomach acids kicked into second gear and I braced myself for what was sure to be a struggle.

My instincts were correct. Mom showed up with a scowl that could peel the paint off the walls and immediately took a verbal swipe at her daughter over getting a tattoo. She turned to me and made a snarling request for the aftercare instructions. I began to explain, and she cut me off at every turn. "What, Vaseline? Or baby oil? Leave the bandage on all week?" I kept calm and continued, more or less ignoring her attempts to browbeat me. The daughter showed her mom the design and mom complained about the size, the content, the lettering and the placement. The daughter asked what she thought about a certain element of it and mom barked, "I'm not happy about any of this!" At the moment, I was more irked on behalf of the kid. She was nice, she was polite, and she was nervous. Mom was berating her as if she was the dog who peed on the carpet, and I couldn't even see why an adult would want to ask someone like that for an opinion.

Mom turned back to me with that scowl and asked, "So, what about removal later? She can laser this off,  right?" I have been asked that question before. I don't particularly like that question, and I'll tell you why. If you're getting tattooed, hopefully you understand that it's forever. There is no escape hatch, you're electing to get this thing on you and you're going to be together every day of your life, 'til death do you part. Yes, there is such a thing as laser removal and it works, more or less. But if you're getting a tattoo with the idea that one day you're going to get rid of it, don't get it. Tattoos are not shirts, you don't retire them to Goodwill or the garbage when you feel they no longer suits you, and lasering off a tattoo is not like removing nail polish.

I wll also say this; I have devoted one-third of my life to tattooing. This is what I do, and I love to do it. This has been one of only two things I have successfully committed to and have managed to engage in for any length of time. Tattooing has been one of very few things that has given me any satisfaction, contentment and sense of purpose in life. I want more than anything to be the best I possibly can at it, it has nudged out my need to draw, paint or even doodle because my art-rocks are gotten off so thoroughly. Tattooing is truly my life's work and my love. What it means to me cannot be adequately put into words, although I'm trying. And that total strangers come to me and trust their bodies to me is no small potatoes from where I sit. That is enormous. I am making something for them, even if it's something small and simple, that to them means a great deal. They shall have it forever and ever, carrying a piece of me on their bodies for an eternity. And to look me in the eye and say, "How do I make it go away?" isn't just a slap in the face, it's a gut punch.

Let me also take it a step further, this was not the potential tattooee asking me this question, it was her mother. The person not getting the tattoo, who has made it very clear that she disapproves, is pretty sure that the adult who IS getting the tattoo will someday hate it and want it removed. Her tone, her expression, all of it, made me see red. This poor girl was near tears at this point, clutching the stencil in her trembling hands and looking as sad as sad could be. I had had enough, and I bluntly informed mom that she was insulting me, insulting our shop and insulting what I do for a living. I told her that I didn't appreciate being talked to that way and that her question was incredibly rude. My boss, who is way better at telling people to shove it than I am, jumped in and informed mom that this girl was an adult, making an adult decision, and that we were interested in pleasing our adult clients, not their irate parents. Mom, of course, did not like that one bit and began shouting back at us that we were being rude and attacking her. I'm no Gordon Ramsay, but I double-dog-dare anyone to go into his place, order dinner, and then ask him how to make yourself vomit up the meal after a while. If you don't get clubbed to death with a frying pan, you will certainly get an earful about insulting his work, his establishment and his art. I feel the same way, only I have no frying pan, and I have yet to call anyone a 'dumb fucking donkey'.

So mom, not content to browbeat her child, thought she could do the same to us and my boss sternly reminded her that "This is still a tattoo shop." As in, we are not the timid salesgirls at the shoe store, or the nerdy baristas at the coffee shop or teenage ice cream jerks at Tastee-Freez. I think the assumption is with the gentrification of the industry has come a gentrification of the artists. I'm no great big tough guy and I really don't like to fight. The younger guys and gals getting into it now are a lot nicer and softer than the old guard. There are a lot of new shops now, and they've not seen he mania and the violence of decades past. I have worked in shops owned by psychopaths who have shot people, stabbed people, and set people on fire right in the shop. I have worked for, alongside, and on gang members, motorcycle club guys, fighters and derelicts. Myself and most tattoo artists my age have arrest records, FBI dossiers and lots of scars. I haven't spent my career in a flower shop. I spent my career behind windows with burglar bars on them, keeping weapons within reach of my station in case I had to defend myself from an unruly drunk, be it client or co-worker. I'm glad things are mellower now. I have no desire to beat the shit out of people. But that doesn't mean I'm a laydown or a doormat. I'm going to be polite and professional, but remember, I come from a place where using someone's head to open the front door before dropping them face-first on the sidewalk was perfectly normal. I'm not going to stand for being talked down to by some tough guy who walks in the door. I'm certainly not going to stand for your mommy talking to me like I'm some asshole because she can't grasp the idea that you're an adult now, and because you made the dumb-ass decision to invite her along. 

So mom left in a howling huff and the girl ended up in tears. I felt awful for her, and I felt awful that we had to fight with her mother in front of her like that. I don't feel awful for defending myself and what I do, because I was perfectly in the right. Especially considering that she was in our shop talking to us like we were shitbags who were defiling her little girl, when we're a legitimate business providing a legitimate service to legitimate adults. If she wanted to sit home and say that about us, fine. She's entitled to her opinion, but that opinion is not welcome in our shop. Sorry, kids. If you feel you have to tattle on yourselves and tell your mommy that you're getting a tattoo, fine. But have the fight about it at home. Don't bring it into our place. We're not interested and we're not going to put up with it. I have a mom already, and she has no problem complaining about what she feels are my bad decisions. I have no interest in hearing it from your mom. Remember, you're an adult now, doing an adult thing. If you already know they're not going to approve and are going to be mad and have a fit, what the hell do you suppose you're going to gain by bringing them along? She's going to belittle and humiliate you in front of the tattoo people, which I think is way worse if you're a dude. On top of it, you're likely going to witness us telling your mom to go pound sand. We don't give a fuck if she doesn't like us, or tattoos, or your decision. If you like it, you're old enough, and you can pay for it, welcome aboard. Naysayers and complainers will not be treated kindly, and we really don't feel we should refrain simply because she's your mother. Grow a pair and go do something without your mommy, for fuck's sake.

I've been on the receiving end of a mommy meltdown  many, many times before, but this was the first time I lost my ability to keep my cool. I'm getting cranky in my advancing age. I've lost interest in being nice to people who are jerkoffs and treat me like I'm their unruly child who needs to be corrected. I was a bartender for a couple years before I started tattooing, and I don't recall anyone bringing in their mom for advice on what they should drink, and how much of it. I've been to a few titty bars, and I don't recall anyone bringing in their mom for advice on which stripper was the hottest, and should they get a lap dace or a private room dance, and how much should they tip for the dance. Most young people don't seem to have a problem going out to do adult things without mommy, but when it comes to tattoos, they're flat on their asses without motherly advice. Like I said earlier, if your mom is cool with the whole thing and wants to come hang out, fine. I'll even tattoo her if she wants something. I'll be real nice to both of you and we'll all have a good time. You guys will have a funny story about what a fun you had and that kooky-ass tattoo artist telling corny jokes and making stupid faces at you every time you tried to take a picture for Facebook. And you'll have nice tattoos that you can keep forever and ever and ever. But for those of you with the Mommie Dearest  types,  please leave her at home. You might love her, but we don't.

Trust Me, I'm A Doctor

Once upon a time I worked at a big, busy shop in a big, busy city. I was there one Saturday night and we had a lull in the action for a bit. A few of my coworkers and I slowly gathered near the front counter, hanging out and shooting the shit while we kept an eye on the front door.

A big group came in after a while, a pack of adults who were most likely a family, all dressed beautifully as if they had come from a wedding party. Leading the pack was a chubby little boy who charged in excitedly, with a great big smile on his round face. A man in the group pointed at the boy and said, "He wants a tattoo." We all laughed that ha-ha laugh, trying to be polite, even though we got sick of that joke after the 5,094th person came in and made that joke about the infant/toddler/kid with them. A woman in the group handed me a piece of paper on which was printed a small, black cross. "This one," she said, as I took the paper. The boy stood before me, looking up at me expectantly, and she ruffled his hair with her hand.

I did the ha-ha laugh again, and looked at her. She looked back at me with a patient expression, and my eyes flashed to the rest of the group, all of who were looking at me with equal expectation. I looked back to the woman who still wasn't saying a word.

"Oh--you're serious?" I stammered.

She nodded and smiled, and said, "It's okay, I'm his mother."

I was flabbergasted. "You're---but---how old is he?"

"Ten," she replied serenely.

"I'm--we---We can't tattoo him!"

"I'm his mother."

"I know, I heard you the first time! But he's a ten-year old boy! You gotta be kidding me! We can't do that!"

"But I'm a doctor in my home country," she replied, her tone moving from cool to chilly.

"I don't give a damn, we're not tattooing a ten-year old kid!"

The men behind her shifted, glancing at each other. "So there is nothing we can do?" one of them asked.

"You can leave," one of my co-workers said from behind me.

They did just that, muttering to each other on their way out. Really, do I even need to enumerate the reasons why tattooing a ten-year-old kid is a bad idea? I probably should have asked where they were from. I like to do a little globetrotting when I'm able. If the medical professionals over that way recommend tattooing little kids, I'd like to stay out of that corner of the world. With my luck I'll have an emergency and I can't imagine what passes for treatment.

No Habla Hebrew! Or, Left Is Right, Right Is....Wait, Start Again

 In the course of my life I've had to figure out a lot of stuff, and I take pride in knowing a little bit about a lot of things. My ex-Mother-In-Law, who was a pretty sharp bird, used to say that I would be her phone-a-friend if she ever got onto Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. It's been a low-level dream of mine to be on Jeopardy!, not that I've made any effort to do so, and I'm not certain I would win, but I'd have a good time. I've surprised people who have come into the shop when I knew who said the quote they wanted to get tattooed on themselves, or I could name the painter of the image they had as a tattoo idea, or that I even could identify the kanji for "strength" or "love" or "family". Not that I can speak Japanese, but you see a symbol about 500 times, you're going to recognize it.

However....I would like to take this opportunity to point out to you, dear readers, that while we're not all total dumbasses who couldn't POSSIBLY be aware of some obscure literary reference, we're also not ultra-masterminds who know every damn thing on the planet. I am particularly addressing the issue that people seem to think we are all ancient language scholars. People like to get tattoos in Hebrew and Arabic and Aramaic and whatever other language they can find that was written on papyrus scrolls and hidden in caves because this means they are worldly and wise and deep and all that shit. And while most tattoo artists can recognize Hebrew and Arabic and Aramaic and whatever other languages were written on papyrus scrolls and hidden in caves, this certainly does not mean we are fluent, or that we have even a basic proficiency with any of them.

 A woman came into the shop wanting a Hebrew tattoo. A search of the internet for the word she wanted turned up the very excellent blog Bad Hebrew Tattoos, which I intend to continue reading after I finish writing this entry. Anyway, the blog is correct in pointing out how often Hebrew Tattoos go bad, I can attest to that. Three times in my career I have seen a co-worker trying to deal with a hysterical customer who realized, a week or so later, that the letters are actually upside down. Every time I have to do a Hebrew tattoo, I panic. And I keep panicking until about six weeks later. When I reach that point and I haven't gotten a phone call about it, I relax.

So this woman comes in and wants a Hebrew word on her forearm. I find the image and then we go through the dance about putting it on upside down. Listen, people, we know it's "for you" and "you wanna look at it" and all that, I get it. But as my boss says, "They don't print your T-shirt upside down so you can see it, do they?" I rest my case. So we go through the rigamarole of why, why not, why, why not, until she relents and I put the stencil on, the correct way, so that it reads correctly to anyone who sees it.  Now we're going to go through the "is it facing the right way" debacle. If there is one thing that completely puzzles me, it's how adults cannot, no matter how many times I tell them, distinguish their right from their left. And then, they cannot understand that if we are facing each other, their left is my right and my right is their left. I understand that not everyone is fit to grasp Quantum Physics. But if "your right is my left" needs more than a ten second conversation, kill yourself. Seriously. you're just getting in the way of progress.

So, I'm not Jewish and I don't speak or read or write Hebrew. But over the years I've done a lot of Hebrew tattoos. I've picked up a few things, as I have with kanji. I can tell for the most part when the letters are upside down, and I know that Hebrew reads from right to left, unlike English, which you are currently reading from left to right. So I place the stencil on her arm and ask what she thinks, and we begin the right-left confusion.

"It reads from right to left," I say, and point to the symbol at the top right. The lettering was in two lines, so I follow the path, top right to top left, bottom right to bottom left with my finger. She looks baffled.

"Wait....left....so it goes this way...," She stares at her arm, finger frozen over the top-left symbol.

"No," I interject, "this way. Right to left, right to left," I follow the letters agan, and she looks more confused. She returns to the mirror, staring at it, following with her finger the path I'm pointing out. "But, if you're looking at it, it would be the opposite, right?"

"No, If I'm looking at it, I'm reading it from right to left. You're looking at it in the mirror. It's just like it was on the printout, that's exactly what's on your arm."

She agrees and I get down to business. I have tattooed three of the four letters when she makes a remark again about the right-left quandary and then says, "Oh....did I goof?"

I stop tattooing and grab the original printout and hold it up in front of her. "This is correct, yes?" I ask, feeling that familiar hot flush of Hebrew tattoo-panic blooming in my chest, creeping up my neck, tinging my ears red.

"Well...yeah," she points out the letters on the paper, calling them by name, "That's right on the paper, but...."

I cut her off. "What is on the paper is exactly what I put on your arm. They are exactly the same. Same direction." I cover the tattoo with the paper so the letters are positioned exactly over the tattoo, then I pull the paper away, leaving the exact, three-quarter tattooed image on her arm. She stares intently.

"But.....left...." her finger hovers over the top line. "This is my left," she says, waving her left hand.

I set my machine down on the counter a little more forcefully than I should. "Look, I don't speak Hebrew, I don't write Hebrew, you gotta know what this stuff is before...." I trail off, listening to the fear-blood thundering in my ears for a moment. I glance over and see my boss has stopped tattooing and is looking at me. I've gotten loud enough that everyone else in the shop has noticed that there is something going on. And of course, as it goes, the only thing customers will glean from the conversation is that somehow *I* have fucked up a tattoo.

"The tattoo is facing me. If I am looking at it, I am reading it from right to left, like this." I point to the top right letter, then the top left, then the bottom right, then the bottom left. "I'm reading it just like you're supposed to." I'm not actually reading it, of course. I'm just smart enough to know right from left.

"But...," she falters, "this is my right," she wiggles the arm which I have been tattooing.

I wheel around behind her and wrap my arms around so she can see my hands in front of her. "This is my right!" I bark, and wiggle my right hand. "This is my left!" I bark again, and wiggle my left. "This is your right!" I poke her right hand with my right hand. "This is your left!" I poke her left hand with my right hand.I wheel back around to face her. I wave my right hand again. "My right!" I point with it to her left. "Your left!"

Suddenly her face transforms into the beaming expression of ultimate enlightenment! "Ohhhhh!!!!! So, when YOU'RE looking at it, THIS is right, and THIS is left!" She laughs, as if this is all utterly hilarious, and my near coronary is the stuff of sitcoms.  I wonder if my blood pressure will ever return to normal again after such a fright.

Really, people. If this is your religion, your life, something so important to you that you wish to have it on your flesh forever, you better know what it is, what it says, how to read it, if it's correct, all that good stuff. I am merely going to copy what it is that you give me. I do not need to speak Hebrew to do a Hebrew tattoo, I simply have to be handed the lettering and I will dutifully replicate it. I have many friends who speak foreign languages, but they have never picked up a tattoo machine a day in their lives. They are not qualified to tattoo you in their native tongue, despite their mastery of it. I do not speak enough of any language to be considered 'fluent' save for English.  I'm am totally qualified to do a kick-ass Hebrew or Korean or Arabic tattoo despite my total ignorance of the language,  provided you can hand me a picture of it.

Which brings me to another gripe....a young man came into the shop with a quote written in English on paper. He wanted the quote tattooed in Arabic. I told him he would need to get it translated and written out for me. He said, rather disdainfully, "I thought you guys were artists." I told him that yes, we are artists. What we are not is professional translators and dead language scholars. Our job is to tattoo the words on you, comprehension of said words is not at all necessary. We have devoted years and years to the art of designing and executing tattoos, not to learning complex alphabets in ancient languages from the other side of the globe. He left in a huff, disappointed in our 'incompetence', and good riddance. The little asshat did not himself speak the language, so how was he to know that my translation, were I able to provide one, would be correct? I could have put a bunch of squiggly lines on paper and told him that it was some bona fide Arabic, and he would be none the wiser. I've done enough Arabic tattoos that I could draw something on paper that looked enough like Arabic to fool a non-speaker. But I have a conscience, and my conscience will not allow me to knowingly tattoo something that is linguistically incorrect on someone. However, with languages like Arabic, Hebrew or Chinese, which use a completely different alphabet than mine, I wouldn't have a clue what it said, so I myself would have no idea if I was making a mistake. All I know is how to make the tattoo look nice. And I'm not the only one who's vulnerable. Take a look at another fantastic blog devoted to Ol' Roundeye's abuse of Asian culture via tattoos of total gibberish, Hanzismatter. If you're Japanese, and you're in Japan getting a tattoo of a Japanese character from a Japanese artist, chances are extremely good that your tattoo will be correct. But every time you replace 'Japanese' with another ethnicity in the aforementioned scenario, the chance of a mistake increases exponentially. The tattoo can still be quite beautiful, there are some breathtaking examples on the blog, but they are gross grammatical errors that a fluent speaker sees immediately. 

Getting it properly translated is your job, doing a good tattoo is mine. You gotta meet us halfway on this one.

Customers Say The Darndest Things! Q&A

I don't normally need to ask a ton of questions about a tattoo before I do it. The questions I usually have to ask are always the same. They are simple questions that require simple answers. I like being sure we are all on the same page so there are no surprises or disappointments when I say, "Okay, you're done, go take a look." However, more often than not the answers I get to these simple questions are utterly baffling. In this installment, we take one of the most important questions:

 How big do you want the tattoo?

SHE: Not too big, but not too small. I mean, like, a decent size. Not huge or obnoxious or anything. You know, a good size.

ME: So, how big?

SHE: You know, not obnoxious or anything. You know, a good size. Not too big. Nothing obnoxious. [NOTE: Repeatedly referring to an Oreo-sized tattoo as "big and obnoxious" to a person who is tattooed from wrists to shoulders is pretty freakin' rude]

ME: How big will the tattoo be?

SHE: Well, I mean, not too big, I mean--

ME: No. How big, show me with your hands.

*****************************************

ME: How big do you want the tattoo?

TOO MANY PEOPLE TO MENTION: About four inches by four inches. [I present a Xerox blown up/shrunk down to 4 x 4] Ohhh, no, that's way too big/too small. More like this [indicates an area with hands that is about a half inch-- or 36 inches].

******************************************

ME: How big do you want the tattoo?

HE: Big enough to fit my shoulder.

ME: Okay, well, this is a pretty small tattoo (about the size of a postage stamp). So you want it as big as your shoulder?

HE: (Looks confused) You think that size there will fit?

ME: (Also looking confused) Well, yeah, this is really tiny in comparison to your shoulder.

HE: Oh. I was thinking maybe it should be smaller.

*****************************************

ME: How big do you want the tattoo?

SHE: Well, what do you think?

ME: Well...I mean...if I were gonna get this, I'd do it about this big. [I blow it up on the copier to about twice the size]

SHE: Oh! No, that's way too big. I want it the size it is on the paper.

ME: Okay, that's what I asked you.

SHE: Well, I just wanted your opinion. But that's what I want there.

********************************************

ME: How big do you want the tattoo?

HE: Well, big enough to hide it from my boss.

ME: [stunned silence for a moment] You're putting it on your back. What kind of job exactly do you have that requires you to be shirtless?

HE: [breaking into a shit-eating grin] Oh, yeah, I guess it doesn't matter, then, does it?

***************************************

ME: So how big do you want this?

SHE: That size there [on the paper].

ME: Well, this is way too small. The letters are going to mush all together and it's going to look like a blob.

SHE: Oh. Well, can it be smaller, then?

 

Well! I Never!

An upside to the gentrification of the tattoo industry is that a lot of people who wouldn't have gotten tattoos 20 years ago are now getting them. Say what you want about people jumping on trends or being followers, whatever. They pay my bills and I have made a good living doing what I do. And with the influx of the new blood (pun intended), the old blood has to one-up them and get bigger, more visible (and more expensive) work. My income goes up and I no longer get barred from the door at fancy restaurants because they no longer think I'm a crack-smoking biker freak. My work gets better and better and my customers are happier and happier, it's a win almost all the way around.

A downside to this gentrification is that a lot of people are coming into the shop who wouldn't have come into the shop 20 years ago. Not to get tattoos, but to gawk and to ask absurd questions. I understand people are curious.  I like that people who don't know what goes on in there come in to find out, instead of making scary assumptions about us. I have worked in some dumpy, seedy shops under a canopy of cigarette smoke, behind a closed door and blacked-out windows with burglar bars on them. I'm proud of the shop where I work today. It's open, clean and bright, splendidly appointed and decorated. We're right out in the open, people can come and look and ask and get involved. A comfortable, reassured potential customer is exactly what I want.

What irks me is that tattooing hasn't been a freak show in quite some time, but people still treat it as if it is. They come to gawk and laugh and point and make crude, rude remarks. They have no idea how to behave in a shop because they've never been in one. I understand that this is all news to them and they probably behave thusly everywhere they go. I picture these people in a Chinese buffet; "Oh, my God! Did you see there's octopus in here? Can you believe these people eat OCTOPUS? What a bunch of freaks!" Meanwhile, the little old  Chinese guy who immigrated from a village hellhole thirty years ago and built this business from the ground up weeps into his Oolong. But I digress.

People are now coming in, either alone, or with someone getting a tattoo. They come in with a look on their faces like a child who just saw either Santa Claus or Satan, their eyes rolling all around trying to take in everything they see. Being nice like we are now, as we do because we're cool like that, we ask them if they need help and the reply is always, "I'm just looking" or, "I'm with him/her/them," and they point to their companion.

And here's where it gets shitty. Refer back to what I said before, I like people to come in and see what we do and check the place out. Ask questions, look around, make yourselves at home. And by make yourselves at home, I mean it's my home and don't be an asshole in my home, please. In what I can assume is an attempt at making polite chit-chat, they start off like, "Wow, you have some really great artwork here....I could never get a tattoo, though."

I strain my eye muscles by rolling my orbs hard enough to see the inside of my skull because I know where this is going. Whether I ask why or not, and I usually will so I don't look like a total dick, they answer "Oh, I just...you know, it's not...I could never do it, I mean, I like them, but, you know, it's not....I just, like..."  and they start making faces as if they have simultaneously bitten into a lemon and gotten bitten on the ass by a horsefly. "Well, it's like, I mean, it looks good on YOU, I'm just saying..."

Yes, I know exactly what you're saying. You have come into the tattoo shop and you're telling the tattoo artist that you're too good for a tattoo and tattoos are for lesser animals and you would never stoop so low. I get it. And you know what? Good. I don't want everyone to have tattoos. Too many of the wrong people have tattoos. I'm lumped in with all kinds of hipster dorks and prissy little bitches and douchebags because we have tattoos in common, and I hate that. I don't want everyone to think I'm cool. I respect peoples' right to think I'm a scumbag and to think what I do is gross and to not want to get tattooed, ever. But as my Mom used to say, "Just because you're thinking it, doesn't mean you have to say it." Sorry, Mom. I didn't mean to become a blogger, I thought it would be fun just one time. So, to wander into our place, where it's what we do, it's what we give and what we get and to go off on some stumblefuck rant about how awful you think it is....well, I gotta ask you one question. What the hell are you doing in here?

If it's so bad and so awful and you could never do it and the though of it makes you squash up your face like a pug dog, then get the fuck out. Seriously. Go. Goodbye. Take your silly, squeamish self down to church and pray for my tortured soul if you want to feel useful. You walked in here on your own volition, not because we have something that you need or even want, but just because. And then you're gonna go on to me about how it's not for you and you don't want it and you could never and it's not for you. And there I am sitting there, like that little old Chinese man, watching you mock what feeds my family. Not that my feelings are hurt, mind you, they're not. I know you're a total nincompoop and you probably have incredible disrespect for everyone you come across, so I don't take it personally. But what I do wonder, is why you feel compelled to walk into a place populated with people who look like this and like this and like this,* and you have no bones about saying how utterly stupid you think they all are. Makes me wonder who the crazy one is, me or you.

So come on in, Have a look around. Ask questions. However, remember, you're in my house. And if you don't like what I do in my house, stay the hell out. There are plenty of places for people like you to kick around and kill time. Show some respect. A lot of us worked long and hard just to make a living, much less become really good at what we do, take care of our customers and to be a part of the communities in which we work. I don't expect everyone to like what I do, again, I'm glad they don't. But the 'Open' sign on the door is not an invitation to wander in and act like an asshole.

 

*With apologies to Gill Montie, Pat Fish and Mister Cartoon. I'm a big fan of all three of you and I'd be over to moon to meet any one of you. I'm also sure you're all really nice people. However, I'm pretty sure I would be wise to be very polite and steer way clear of your respective bad sides.

Time Is Of The Essence

I notice another disturbing new trend in customers' bad behavior: Forceful time prediction. I'm not sure where people are getting this from, but more and more people are doing it. They walk in and say, "I'd like to get (X), it should only take about (Y) minutes."

Now, there is a big difference between asking me and telling me. If someone says to me, "I'd like to get this bird. How long do you think that would take, about an hour?" There's nothing wrong with asking me, or even guessing and seeing if your suspicion was correct. Most people are hugely relieved when they ask me if their tattoo would take about two hours and I tell them it would only be about thirty minutes. But somehow, people now have it in their minds that they KNOW how long it will take, I obviously would not be the authority on that, and they must tell me how long it will take.

I had a guy come in last week and show me a name on his finger. "I wanna cover this up, it should take about twenty minutes," he stated matter-of-factly, his tone sounding much more like an order than anything. Then he asked, "What's the wait time?"

I have learned one thing as of late, and that is I can say absolutely anything I want to people, as long as I have a huge grin on my face. I replied to him, "Now, what makes you think you can come in here and tell me how long it takes to do my job? I'll be the judge of that!" Big grin, he grinned back and I quickly fantasized about taking a cheese grater to his face before proceeding.

What I have come to realize is that people tell us how long their tattoo takes, not because they're trying to be involved in the process, but because they assume that if their tattoo is not lengthy, they will not have to wait for it. This is where I would like to point out that there is no priority flag on anyone's tattoo. There is, for all intents and purposes, a line. And when you walk into a shop looking for a tattoo, you get in line. And it doesn't matter if your tattoo is a freckle and the three guys in front of you are each getting a half sleeve, you're in line behind them. You go to the back of the line and you wait your turn like a big kid. Your tattoo is forever and there is no need to expedite anything. This isn't your shitty office job where certain documents have a bright yellow stick-um thing on them that screams "DO IT YESTERDAY".

More and more people are coming in and saying that their tattoo will only take five minutes or ten minutes ot fifteen minutes or whatever, in the assumption that they will be magically swept to the head of the line and everyone else can go kick rocks. Each and every one of our customers is important to us, but everyone has to wait their turn. Let me also clue you into something: If there is a guy who wants a $400 tattoo that gets here here first, then you come in next with your $40 tattoo, I'm not going to piss off the guy with the $400 tattoo on your account. I make money doing what I do, and if I have to have someone stomp off in a huff because they can't wait, I'd rather lose the $40 tattoo than the $400 tattoo. That's just the way it is. I will get to you when I'm able to get to you. And I will do a wonderful job and we'll both be happy. But marching in here demanding that you go first because your tattoo takes less time isn't going to get you in the chair any faster. If anything, you'll be told to come back later or not at all.

I've had so many people pitch a fit and say again and again, "But mine's only going to take five minutes! I gotta wait two hours for a five-minute tattoo?" Well, riddle me this, Batman....If you're in line at Starbucks waiting on your triple mocha crappalappa latte light-a-ccino, does the guy who comes after you for a small  black coffee get to go ahead of you? No? Why not? His coffee takes five seconds to pour. Yours has to be blended and poured and have all the syrups dumped in and a big foamy mountian of whipped cream heaped up on top, why can't he go first? His is only five seconds. Why should he have to wait three minutes for a five-second order? Because that's the way it works in the coffee place and the grocery store and the tattoo shop. That's the way it works in real life in gerneral. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. But there's good news! There's a place for people who throw temper tantrums about having to wait in line, though, you'll fit right in. And they have a ball pit and pizza and giant singing anamatronic animals and if you get 3 million skee-ball tickets they'll give you a piece of candy and a stick-on tattoo.

You Get What You Pay For

For starters, a giant taint punch to Typepad for not having spell check on here. I never realize how dopey I sound until after I post. Of course, that's my fault for not properly proofreading, but this is the cyber age, damnit! Someone else is supposed to do it for me!

Anyway, after a re-read of some of my old posts and cringing over the typos and errors, I realized I had alluded to my favorite story about the tattoo grab bag but never posted about it. So, here goes.

The last shop I worked at was in a college town. Before you get any ideas, let me tell you that a college town is a great place to work as a tattoo artist, and it's not even because of the influx of fresh meat every year. In general, the townies are a little more youthful in the mind and are surprisingly open to more creative tattoo ideas. Sure, we had our share of frat boys and sorrority girls getting dumb little shit on their ankles. But for the most part, the clientele was great, I had a lot of fun, and I did some really beautiful custom work. However, that college town youthful exuberance often tips over into recklessness. From where I sit, that is often a good thing as it's incredibly entertaining.

We had been getting phone calls all of a sudden, lots of them, asking if we had a grab bag. For those of you not in the know, it works like this: There is a selection of small designs from which you can choose and they're done at very low prices. Some shops will have the designs on a sheet of flash and you pick out what you want. That's pretty popular around Friday the 13th, the shop will do the tattoo for 13 bucks and more or less demand a 7 dollar tip. There's alway a catch, people. We get something out of it whether you realize it or not. Read on and you'll see what I mean.  Some shops, however, will cut out small designs and put them into a bag or a box and you make a blind pick. That's what we did. Our shop minimum was $60, but anything out of the box was $40. If you didn't like what you got and wanted to pick again, it was $10 every time. If your expectations were low, you could get something for $40 that would normally cost $80 or even $100.

Now, that seems like a silly idea from a business standpoint. Why would you give tattoos away for half off if you could easily charge full price? And who would get a tattoo at random with no choice of the design, just to save a few bucks? A lot of people, apparently, as we were getting phone call after phone call asking for it. So, we decided to give the people what they want. But, being the sadistic creep that I am, I wasn't about to put a bunch of flowers and skulls and butterflies in there. I'm not about to give away my bread and butter for less! I got out a pice of paper and drew the stupidest silver-dollar sized tattoos I could think of: A flying penis shooting a huge spurt of cum, a swirly cartoon pile of shit with little flies buzzing around it, a toilet, a piece of moldy cheese with little stink lines radiating from it, and so on. I saw it this way: If someone was ballsy or crazy enough to stick their hand in a box and get a tattoo of whatever came out, they were ballsy or crazy enough to get a tattoo of the ass end of a cow or a dancing hot dog.

We put the box on the counter and watched the games begin. People went nuts for it. They laughed their asses off and so did we. Rarely did anyone pick again after their first selection, most of them took what they got and thought it was hilarious. We didn't really care about doing the tattoos for cheap because it was so fucking funny to tattoo a roll of toilet paper on someone. None of the tattoos took more than five minutes. To get paid 20 bucks to laugh my ass off for five minutes, well, that was a good deal from where I sat.

So one day I had this young man in my chair. His friend paced around nervously as he watched me at work. He was untattooed and was rather rattled by the idea of the whole thing. The guy I was tattooing kept egging his friend on, telling him to get a tattoo, which only seemed to make him more nervous. After a time, he spotted the grab bag box on the counter and asked about it. I explained how it worked and the guy in my chair lit up like a Christmas tree. "Do it, dude! Do it!" He kept repeating. His friend got all green around the gills about a blind pick, until the guy in my chair said, "If you do it, I'll get one, and I'll pay for yours."

Now, at this point, let me mention that this guy was getting a big tribal that cost a few hundred bucks. So I said to him, "I tell you what....You get something out of that box and I will put it on you for free. I already have all the shit out and I could use the entertainment." He almost leaped off the chair and began barking at his friend to bring the box over so he could pick something. He shoved his hand in and dug around furiously. I sat back with a smile, waiting to see what he had selected. Triumphantly, he pulled out a small piece of paper, flipped it over to reveal...cartoon pile of poop with flies.

His face fell. "Oh," he said dejectedly."I'm not getting this."

"Why not?" I asked. "No charge, have some balls, come on. You were all over that a minute ago."

He looked incredibly uncomfortable, and his shoulders slumped as if he had an air leak somewhere. "Well, I didn't know it was gonna be something like that."

I asked him, "Well, for forty bucks, what did you think was gonna be in there? A whole backpiece or something?"

"I dunno....I just....never mind."

People, really. If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is. I got a $13 Friday the 13th tattoo at a convention once. It wasn't a blind pick, but I got a pretty dumb little tattoo. It's one of my favorites, though, simply because it's so stupid. You have to understand that if you're getting something for less, you're getting less of something. You also should not expect a bunch of creepers like tattoo artists to NOT take advantage of something like your willingness to get some tattoo, any tattoo, at a discount. You do realize we pay our bills doing the big tribals and fairies and stuff like that. If you come in and say, "I'll take whatever you can give me for peanuts," well, by golly, you're gonna get a pile of poo or a flying dick or stinky cheese. We're a bunch of weirdos, we can't possibly work at a normal job because we're nuts and that's the beginning and the end of it. So if you're willing to trust our nuttiness, you get what you get. Grab bags are not for you, they are for the amusement of the tattoo artist.

 

The Four Tattoos You Need To Stop Getting Right Now

Now, before you get all warped, hear me out. Understand that I am speaking as someone who tattoos ten hours a day, five days a week, four weeks a month, twelve months a year, give or take a day or two. So, when you come to the shop, you get your tattoo and you leave. When I come to the shop, I see your tattoo, and her tattoo, and his tattoo, and their tattoo...now add to the fact that I'm not the only one here. At the end of the year, we have put on a lot of tattoos. It stands to reason that there would be repeats here and there, and that's okay. There is no such thing as a 100% unique tattoo, everything borrows from something else. And thanks to the internet, if you post a photo of a tattoo done in Cleveland, within minutes, someone in Taipei can print it out and bring it to a shop to get the same one. It's just what happens. However, there seems to be a narrowing of the stream, if you will. Instead of seeing variations on a theme, we are seeing endless replications of the same design, over and over and over. The general public has settled on edlessly regurgitating the same few designs. In the name of customizing yourself, you are choosing the exact same image as thousands of other people. 

Let me also add that I would never suggest people NOT get tattooed. I'd be out of a job if I started doing that. I might occasionally question the design or the placement if I feel you're not going to be happy with the results, but the decision to get tattooed is always the right one from where I sit. But you have to consider where it is that I sit. I'm on the opposite end of the machine from you, and I have a very, very different perspective on this than you do. I would like to think that means something.

Mostly, and I hate to be selective, this list is aimed more at the ladies than the menfolk. I hate to be selective, but, girls, you are the worst offenders. I can almost guess which of these images you're about to show me when you pull out your pink, blingy iPhone and start scrolling through the images. And I wait and wait as your squared-off plastic french manicure thumbnail taps the screen repepatedly while you search through all the duckface pics you made in the ladies' room at Chipotle. I play a game with myself, trying to guess which one it's going to be, if you haven't already told me. It's become my personal ESP test.

Now, I know what some of you are thinking: "Well, what about flash? You mean to tell me you never did the same piece off a sheet of flash more than once?" Of course I have. You haven't tattooed until you've replicated JD Crowe's climbing panther a few dozen times. I did it twice in the same night on two people who were not in any way connected. Of course there's repetition in tattooing, but this stuff here is really pushing it. And if this stuff were the least bit interesting or well-designed, I wouldn't be complaining. When people bring me these images, I point out the potential problems with said images. Their response is, "Well, that's what I want." So I do it, then they come back moaning that I was right and they should have listened to me. So not only do these tattoos show a lack of independent thought, they are also the mark of people who cannot listen to instructions. Therefore, I have no remorse about hurting your feelings if your tattoo is on this list.

1. Feather Exploding Into Tiny Birds

I blame the rise of this tiresome tattoo purely on Pintrest. I can't say I'm clear on how the site works, but from what I understand, it's like Facebook, only with more pictures of kitties and food, and less witty repartee.  Anyway, this tattoo...I did this tattoo four times in one week not long ago, and one of my co-workers did it at least once that same week that I know of. So that's five confirmed times in one week.  Now, not even taking a long, hard look at this photo, I can tell you one thing: This tattoo is shitty. Sorry. Whoever did this tattoo deserves a slap, at the very least. It's choppy, scratchy and shaky. Now, you're bringing us a photo of a shitty tattoo and you want the same thing. Take this tattoo and clean it up and do it properly, and it still sucks. It's a giant black blob of shit. You know what else is a giant black blob of shit? Tribal. So, yeah. You're getting this because you think tribal is stupid. Guess what? It doesn't matter if it's pointy black shit in the shape of a tiger or a skull or a bunch of tiny birds exploding out of a feather, it's still tribal. As the great philosopher Nelson Muntz once said, "HA ha!"

2. Infinity Sign With Something Written In It

Here is the problem I have with this tattoo. Everyone who brings it to me says this: "Can you make it, like, more symmetrical?"

From the dictionary definition of 'Symmetry':

"a. geometrical or other regularity that is possessed by a mathematical object and is characterized by the operations that leave the object invariant: A circle has rotational symmetry and reflection symmetry.

b. a rotation or translation of a plane figure that leaves the figure unchanged although its position may be altered."

Simplified: An object that is the same on both sides after splitting it in half is considered symmetrical. Look at the above design. Split it in half down the middle. Do both halves look the same? No. One half has "Love" written in it. So as far as making your very asymmetrical infinity sign look symmetrical, you are shit out of luck and you also need to go back to vocabulary class for a while. Also, I already know you want this design very small, on the inside of your wrist, upside down because it's 'for you'. And as soon as the fragile, human-hair width lines you wanted rub off a week later, you're going to understand why I told you what I told you about not making it smaller.

3.This Shit Right Here

Any and all song lyrics or quotes or whatever, wherever you put them and whatever kind of lettering, it all sucks, sucks, sucks. There was an astoundlingly eloquent piece written against this sort of thing and I'll be damned if I can find it. If I ever do find it again, I will link to it, promise. EDIT: Thanks to bad-ass readers Al and JonDredd, I have the link right effin' here. Please read, it's great stuff.

I know what you're thinking: "Well, YOU'RE the artist! YOU use your imagination to design something!" I'd love to. But you want stupid fucking lettering. There is nothing remotely interesting or imaginative about that. If you handed me the lyrics and said, "Draw me a picture of what these words inspire," That would be kick ass. Once, as an experiment, a regular of mine handed me a printout of lyrics for a later appointment. For shits and giggles, I drew a picture of what I saw in my head. She came back for the appointment and okayed the lettering. Then I pulled out the drawing. She took it in her hands, and I could see her trembling. Tears welled up in her eyes, and with a hitch in her voice, she said, "Oh, my God, that is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen." 

She got the lettering tattoo anyway. And I never again wasted my time creating a breathtaking, one-of-a kind artistic masterpiece for someone who wanted lettering.

Let me also add, and this is in particular regards to song lyrics, that your tastes do change as you age. This would fly in the face of the idea of tattoos altogether, that you might outgrow them as you get older. Not so; with an image, you can merely ascribe any meaning to it that you like. The roaring lion that you got to be a badass when you were twenty could be the symbol of familial pride as you become a parent, then a grandparent. The butterfly you got to represent your youthful beauty could come to represent your emergence as a wiser woman after a bad marriage. The meaning of images is mutable, the meaning of words is fixed. There is no flexible explanation for the tattoo pictured above, its meaning remains constant for an eternity.

I'm what they call 'middle aged' now. The other day I was driving along and a song came on Pandora that I hadn't heard in ages. As I listened to the lyrics that I used to joyfully shout at the top of my lungs as a teenager, I found myself saying, 'Oh, my God!" aloud to no one. I was horrified, and gave the song a thumbs-down, hoping to never hear it again. Immediately, I gave silent thanks that I did not grow up in the era where one gets a massive tattoo of their favorite song lyrics, for I would indeed have some serious cover-up work to get done today. Speaking of cover-ups, don't think you won't one day. In the last two weeks alone I covered up three tattoos of song lyrics. All three people said the same thing: "Well, it really meant something at the time...." And what is a more expensive pain in the ass than trying to cover a giant block of all-black bullshit? Nothing. If you have lyrics tattooed on you anywhere, I suggest you start a small savings account for your future coverup.

4. The Magical Side Of The Finger Tattoo That Will Always Look Perfect Because Rihanna's Does.

A man wrote a very thoughtful piece about his finger tattoos which is pretty relevant to what I'm saying, although his take on the matter was rather philosophical. It was a great piece, but I'm going to cut to the chase here and show you what happens. And when you come to me and want "Shhh" on your finger because Rihanna has it, I will explain to you what's going to happen. And you will insist that her tattoo always looks perfect and never fades. I have three explanations for this:

1. Rihanna can afford to get tattooed whenever she wants, and going to the tattoo parlor every other     week is likely part of her routine

2. Photoshop

3. You have no fucking idea what you're talking about

Despite what I tell you, you will remain convinced that you will beat the odds, and you will not. Here is the aforementioned man's finger tattoos, before and after:

This is pretty much what 99.99% of finger tattoos become. I'm only telling you to stop getting them because you refuse to listen to what we tell you about them, you refuse to manage your expectations, and then you have the gall to come back, shove your finger in our faces and say, "LOOK! It's ALL FUCKED UP!" Yeah, well, we warned you. Sorry you're not as magical as you hoped you were, but we tried to tell you that. Until you can get these and stop acting like whiny twats about it, I'm resisting. Besides, hand tattoos are for hardasses. Well, they used to be. Also, not to be a wet blanket, but the economy is in the toilet. As an unemployed recent grad with 70K in student debt and no job, you might not want to try so hard to make yourself unemployable. Jus' sayin'.

I'm sure this list will be added to at some point. Were I making this list ten years ago, it would be a different list. I see now how trends come and trends go, and what people do in the aftermath. All the people who got tribal armbands in the mid-90s are coming back to try and cover them up. Now, if there is any one thing that's a bigger pain in the ass to cover than a big block of text, it's a thick band of pointy black shit. Take heed, kids. The classic tattoo designs, like that damn climbing panther, endure for a reason.

 

I Hate Your Friend

I hate your friend. Yes, I do. Yes, your best bro that you knew since third grade. Yes, your OMG LOL BFF since dance class when you were twelve. All of them, every one of them. Your friends...I fucking despise them.

Allow me to elaborate on that. I don't just hate any of your friends, I hate your friend that comes into the shop when you're getting tattooed. Allow me to also elaborate on that. I know, some people are nervous and feel reassured when they're not alone, I get that. But your friend is there for one reason, and that is for moral support. Occasionally, turning to them and saying, "What do you think, dark green or light green?" is just fine by me. I'm not always a rock-solid decision maker and occasionally asking someone for their opinion is a good idea. If I did it more often, I wouldn't be such a shitty dresser. So far, I'm not hating THAT friend. I'm hating that other one, that one that 75% of you feel compelled to bring in to the shop.

I hate that friend that takes the tracing paper stencil once I've drawn it and has to hold it up on you. This is after I spent a good half-hour or so busting my ass trying to get it just right, and I carefully place the tracing paper to your shoulder blade and say, "So, that'll be right there, just like that." You nod and say, "I like it." I concur. Then you look at your friend. Your friend holds out their hand and says, "Lemme see that." Then they manhandle it like it's an old shred of newspaper, not even minding the fact that pencil on tracing paper is highly smudgy, and tracing paper is easily wrinkled. So, they smudge the design and crinkle up the paper so my carbon stencil is going to come out like total shit. And then they hold it up on you, facing backwards, in a really poorly placed spot and say, "I was thinking more like this." Backwards and crooked? Oh, thank you, thank you very much, I couldn't have done this without your mastermind friend here. I was actually going to put the tattoo on correctly, but he helped me to see the error in my ways. Now, you're looking at me in utter confusion because your friend is saying something different than I am, and you're wondering who to trust. Well, think hard about your choices: trust the guy who's been doing tattoos day in and day out for years and years and years, or the teenager who works at Tastee-Freez. Your choice.

I also hate your friend because your friend is a cheapskate. You ask me for a tattoo and I give you a price. You enthusiastically assent and then your friend makes that sucking sound through their teeth. All of a sudden, you're looking at your friend and asking, "What?" Your friend says that's too much. Now you look concerned. Your friend is saving you from me, the vicious predator who is going to rob you blind and leave you with nothing. I clearly am not to be trusted, with my awards hanging on the wall and my portfolio thick with photos of beautiful work. Clearly I am some sort of charlatan, with the peculiar notion that quality does cost money. Your friend is here to remind you that lifetime of happiness from the expertise of an artisan should be an act of charity. Then comes the final insult: Your friend rolls up/pulls down the edge of an article of clothing and shows a tattoo that is 1/4 the size of what you're getting, and looks like an apprentice did it with one eye shut and a raging hangover. Your friend proudly points out that this tattoo only cost $40, or some other insanely unreasonable figure, and then looks at you expectantly, wondering how you could be so foolish with your money.

You look nervously back to me. Naturally, your friend, who works at Tastee-Freez, would have a far better idea of what is acceptable pricing for tattoos, and what can I do to match that price? I can't, and I won't. Your friend huffs and puffs about 'a rip-off' and says they'll wait in the car. The clincher? That friend isn't paying for your tattoo. It's your money, your decision, and your friend thinks that you can not only not choose your tattoo wisely, but you cannot even handle your own money.

I hate your friend who draws. I have never actually met this friend. You have me draw a perfect, beautiful custom tattoo for you. Annd then when I'm done you flippantly tell me, "I'm going to have my friend draw something for me." This is because, before you came to see me, you called your friend at Tastee-Freez and he said, "Don't worry, I'll draw you something." And you're pretty sure that your friend, with his three high school art classes will design a far superior tattoo than a tattoo artist will. You completely believe that someone who has never, ever attempted to translate art on paper to art on skin  will have the foresight to know what can and cannot be executed in a tattoo. I cringe when I recall the drawings I made for my friends' tattoos before I started tattooing. I always wondered, when they came back to show me the actual tattoo, why there were so many differences from what I had drawn. That was because I knew how to draw drawings, not tattoos. They are, and always will be, two different things, despite what your friend has told you.

I hate playing twenty questions with your friend. I'm deeply engrossed in your tattoo and I'm getting pelted with an endless barrage of stupid questions that not only distract me, they infuriate me. I'm not one of these people who can't do two things at once. I like to bust balls and shoot the breeze and joke around while I work, on most days. Somedays I like to keep quiet and enjoy the hypnotic buzz of the machine against a good song. But when I have to field an endless string of stupid questions, it agitates the shit out of me. And that agitation is sucking up valuable brain space that I need to do your tattoo. Your friend, who insisted on coming along with you after he got off work at Tastee-Freez, cannot let you have your moment. Your friend doesn't give a shit that both of us are in the middle of something and that a third wheel is distracting. Your friend wants to make this all about satisfying their personal curiosities about what I do, and possibly trying to convince me that they are a total badass.

"How much does that gun cost? How much are the inks? Can you get those anywhere? Did you go to school for this? How long did it take you to learn? How many tattoos have you done? Do you make a lot of money doing tattoos? How do you become a tattoo artist? Can you get tattooed while you're drunk? Does it hurt? What's the most painful place to get a tattoo? Does it hurt on your foot? How much to tattoo my whole back? What's the weirdest tattoo you ever did?  What if I smoke weed before, is that okay? Do you think some tattoos are stupid? What happens if people pass out, do you keep going? What happens if you mess up? How much would you charge me for this (shows a tattoo they already have)? When you were a little kid, did you want to be a tattoo artist? Did anyone ever quit halfway through the tattoo? Does it hurt on your neck? What's the coolest tattoo you ever did? How much would it be for a tribal from my wrist to my shoulder?" And on and on and on. I will also add to the fact that I'm getting older, and years upon years of too-loud music and tattoo machines buzing seven inches from my ear have damaged my hearing. So compound my poor hearing with the fact that there is music playing in the shop. Also, I have a tattoo machine seven inches from my ear, and there is at least one more buzzing away nearby. There is the chatter of my co-workers, other customers, the phone ringing....So, now, I'm breaking away from your tattoo to look at your friend and say, "What?" because I didn't hear the stupid question. I ought to just pretend I'm deaf. So, your friend is not just distracting and annoying the person who is putting something on your body that will be there forever and ever and ever. Your friend does not care that this is your time to do something fun for yourself, and is insisting on making it all about himself.

I don't dislike it when people bring friends. We often have a good time, and your friends often become my future clients. I like that people can come in here and see what we do and get excited about it. I'm excited about what I do, and that's why I write this blog. I hate that people have to fuck up something that I love to do. But I love to share what I do with people, I love to see you and your friends get excited and come down here and hang out and have a good time. But you gotta ask yourself if you have that friend that I hate. Because that friend doesn't just irritate me; that friend doesn't think all that much of you. That friend doesn't think you're that smart or capable or responsible. That friend thinks you're hopelessly dependent on them. That friend doesn't really care what you want. Leave that asshole at home and come in with someone who respects you.

 

For What? Forever, You Jackass!

I have the misfortune of also being witness to a lot of shittiness happening to my coworkers and bosses. So it's not just me, we all get treated equally shitty by the general public, which is my only assurance that I'm not doing something terribly wrong.

So this guy comes in today with some motley pice of crap on his forearm. The red was choppy and blotchy and he wanted to know how much to fill it in again. My boss took a peek and said "Fifty bucks."

He jerked his arm back and said, "For what?"

Let me stop right there. Here is the question: 'how much?' Here is the answer: 'fifty bucks'. Where is the confusion there? I see nothing to be puzzled about. And that exchange happens more often than one might think. "How much to fix this?" they ask, showing us some scribbly, homemade piece of crap. And when we give a price, the inevitable answer is "For WHAT?" As if somehow we are going to take their fifty bucks, pocket it, smile and say, "Okay, now get the fuck out." The price we gave you is to fix the tattoo you just showed us. Where are you getting lost?

And the reasoning for such asshattery is this: The price we are charging for the fixup is always more than they paid for the original tattoo. And this tattoo, might I remind you, looks like crap and they hate it, and they want us to fix it. Yet they are astonished that we would dare to charge more than the garage monkey with a walkman motor for a tattoo machine who fucked it up in the first place.

So this guy who was just quoted fifty bucks and replied with "for what" came back with, "I only paid sixty for the whole thing. To which my boss replied that this was the problem with the tattoo in the first place; it was a cheap, homemade piece of garbage, which we didn't do in the first place. We had no obligation to fix it for less than the original price, or for free. We have rent to pay and supplies to buy. Fifty dollars is a small price to pay for something that will be on you forever and will look good. I am appalled at the very idea that people have the gall to come in and demand that we, none of whom have been doing this for less than ten years, work for less money than some yahoo in his apartment with a homemade rig.

People, please. When you get a tattoo, you're paying for the experience. You're paying for the quality. Why does a steak at the fanciest joint in town cost 60 dollars? Because you're paying for the cooking skill of the executive chef who studied in Paris for fifteen years and is cooking you a twenty dollar steak on a stove that cost 15 thousand dollars. Why does the steak at Denny's cost eleven dollars? Because it's a three dollar cut of meat prepared on a ramshackle grill by an illegal alien or a highschool dropout. It's that simple. They are two different things. My tattoos and the tattoos that your friend does in his house on trade for cigarettes are not the same.

Needless to say, my boss and this dude had words and he left. Good riddance. He can go back to his friendly neighborhood butcher and have him fix it. I wonder if he knows how much the treatment for staph infections are. I don't like to wish bad on people. But I really wish more people like him had to find out just that. After a 10K hospital stay and a course of antibiotics and the tattoo still looks like crap, maybe then they'd understand that fifty bucks is for forever.