Angry Ink

When The Shit Hits The Pants

Now that the headline has caught your attention, allow me to make note about fainting...We see a lot of it at the ol' tattoo shop. We're used to it. Fainting isn't what you think it is. It's not like in the movies, where someone gracefully brings the back of their hand to their forehead and swoons onto a nearby sofa. No, nothing like that at all. What really happens is that your brain catapults you into REM sleep, which is not a deep-level sleep, but, if you paid attention in science class, you know this is the stage of sleep in which dreams occur. Most often the fainters move about, sometimes thrashing violently as if they are having a nightmare. They often snore or make guttural noises, and quite often their eyes are open during the faint. So, to everyone who asks the question, "What do you do when someone faints, keep tattooing?" The answer is a definite no. We spend out time trying to wrestle them back into the chair so they don't hit the floor and crack their skulls and/or we try to keep their heads up so they don't swallow their tongues. Allow me to demonstrate the phenomenon for you, thanks to Youtube for the footage. These kids are making themselves faint on purpose...odd amusement, but it beats smoking crack, I guess. But, this is basically what we have to contend with when we deal with fainters....

Okay, now we're all clear on that.  So, anyway, we had this guy who came into the shop from time to time. Big fella, well over six feet tall. Strapping, burly, picture Vincent D'onofrio's 'Edgar' from 'Men In Black', before he turned into a giant bug. Anyway, this guy comes in from time to time, sees his regular artist, and, each time, goes into a dead faint. He never got anything bigger than an orange on him, he usually made it most of the way through, and then near the end he was out like a light. One Saturday, his main man called in sick and I had to take over. I knew what I was in for, and I bravely accepted the challenge. Of course it was business as usual, he blacked out, came to, I finished the tattoo and he was on his merry way.

A few months later he showed up, needing a touch-up. I figured doing such a tiny little bit of work wouldn't even give him the time to faint, I should be in the clear. After the two minutes of tattooing, he seemed okay, and I began to clean up. "Uh-oh," he said suddenly, "I'm gonna go out." Sure enough, he did.

Now, remember, I said that this was a big brick wall of a man. I'm not all too big, myself, and I worked in a rather small room at the time. His legs shot out in front of him, and his feet slammed against the cabinet doors under my counter. His legs went stiff as boards and his knees locked, tipping the chair backwards as his back arched and his body began to spasm. I got behind the chair and braced myself against the back with all my might. Behind me there was a tall mirror, with glass panes on either side. Basically, if I just let him fly back and hit the wall, he'd either shatter the mirror and cut himself to ribbons, or go through the windows and possibly decapitate himself. So there I was, my back pressed to the mirror, feeling the tendons in the back of my legs straining as I tried to keep him from pushing himself over. I was also worried about his convulsing tipping the chair on its side, and I was simultaneously using my stringy arms to keep it upright. I had heard of grannies lifting cars off of babies, so I assured myself that I'd be okay as the burn in my shoulders spread down my arms, my elbows quivering from the strain.

After what seemed like ages, his legs went slack and his body sagged into the chair like a sandbag. I dropped my arms in relief and breathed deeply for a moment before lifting his head up. As he came to, he looked quite a bit disoriented, as fainters always do when they wake up to find themselves in a tattoo shop. Basically, it's like something hits the reset button on your brain, and you'd expect to be in your bed when you wake up. Instead you've got some tattoo artist smacking you in the face and possibly laughing at you.

After a minute, I became aware of a raunchy smell...it's not uncommon for people to lose controI to the point where they fart like crazy when they faint. Some even pee themselves, I've got a million stories about that.....So, there I was, stunned at the stink which was filling up my small, and rather warm, room. That's no fart, I told myself after a moment. And I was right. As soon as he had collected himself to the point of being able to get up and walk out, he did so with a humungous wet brown stain on his ass. Talk about losing consciuosness, even his bowels fell asleep on the job. Yikes! Still beats a puker, though, at least he took the mess with him. Not the stink, though. I was going bats all night trying to air the room out. Maybe I should have let him fall through the window, I would have gotten the room aired out a lot quicker. Needless to say, he never came back again. I don't blame him. It's hard to show your face after you show your shit.

What's the Chinese Symbol for "Egomaniac"?

I was riding out a quiet night at the shop last week when a young lady and her beefy boyfriend came wandering in. She was looking for Chinese symbols....of course...so I directed her to the gargantuan book we have and waited as she flipped through.

"I know what I want," she said after a second, "I want 'Princess'". Okay. This one always makes me snicker into my sleeve. I just look at it this way, 'Princess' refers to the daugher of a Monarch, or one who marries into a monarchy. It doesn't mean a cute, special girl whose daddy/boyfriend loves her dearly. Princesses don't wear flip-flops and pajama pants and smoke menthol cigaretttes and drive Volkswagen Jettas. However, my opinions are not given when they are not asked for, so I dutifully nodded, and took the book over to the copier.

Beefcake mumbled something to her and as I hit the copy button, she called out to me to wait. "I wanna look around a little first." Sure thing, Princess, have at it.

I wandered around for a bit, goofed off with some of the guys and then came back to see how she was doing. "I have a question," She began. "I need your opinion."

"Okay, whatcha got?"

"Which do you think sounds more conceited, "Beautiful", or "Cute"? " She  asked, referring to the symbols. Now, here is where opinions get me into trouble. You know that filter between brain and mouth, the one that keeps most of the bad things out? Well, mine is pretty coarse, in fact, a car could make it through that filter. When I get to work, though, I try to dial it down several notches, screen things a little better. Unfortunately, that day, she was really begging for my real opinion, in fact, she even acknowledged the conceit and I just couldn't resist.

"Both." I replied quickly. "But certianly not as stuck-up as calling yourself a princess, because if you were, you wouldn't be standing here talking to me right now." My immediate impulse was then to slap myself on the forehead. However, I have stellar contol over my arms, even if I have none over my mouth.

To my surprise, she nodded and agreed. "Yeah, I think I'll do 'cute', it's all the same and I like the symbol." As if we were trying to decide between the yellow dress and the red dress and I had said I preferred red. Wow, that chick is a good sport. And I was lucky that Beefy McDunce was completely oblivious to what happened or he might have pounded me into the floor like an eight-penny nail. So, she got her symbol and was happy as a clam. She hugged me and tipped me and headed off into the sunset. I had to admire her, at least she called it for what it was and respected my agreement. Most people are sorry they asked for my opinions.

The Thunder From Down Under

Ah, hey there, kiddies. It's been quite some time! I decided to take a little hiatus from the industry, I was rather burnt. Those of you who do what I do can understand that completely. As much as we love it, this is a job than can grind you down to a raw, pulsing nub. So I took some time off, got myself together and did a bit of travelling. On my return, an old friend got a hold of me to do a little work, and after some arm-twisting, I conceded. I realized, as I went through the motions as if I had been working all along, that I missed tattooing terribly, and it was time to pick up the irons and go back to work. As if by divine providence, an old friend and former co-worker got in touch within a few days of my decision, and asked if I'd come work for him. I jumped on the chance and now I've been back in the saddle for a little while.

Truthfully, this blog had sort of slipped my mind while I was off galavanting around the world, and as something really hilarious happened here at the shop, I was reminded of something that happened when I was apprenticing. Then I remembered this page. So, for those of you who have been waiting, I appreciate your patience, I promise I will pay due dilligence. I'm witnessing all sorts of goofy things, and I can get online while I'm here, so I will keep you occupied with more tales of tattooing terror! So, wihout further ado...

When I was a wee apprentice, I worked in a real roughneck street shop. The owners were a couple of leathery, old-schoolers who smoked until a thick haze hung in the air all over the shop, and they cursed up blue streaks that could make a sailor blush. One afternoon, I was busy tracing flash when this woman walked in the door. Well, I shouldn't say she walked, it was more like she squeezed through the frame. I had never seen anyone so huge in my life. And I don't mean she was tall. If she was five foot five, that was being generous. But she was easily four hundred pounds, EASILY. I was pretty wet behind the ears about the ways of the word at the time, so I was stunned at the sight of her. These days, I don't even bat an eye at this stuff.

So, she waddled up to the counter, huffing and puffing, and says she wants a rose on her ankle. I nod silently in amazement and summon one of the bosses from the next room. He comes in, filterless cigarette burning away in his calloused, yellowed fingers. He speaks to her succinctly but politely, until she settles on a little traditional piece. He points her back to his section and tells her to have a seat while he gets ready.

"Jesus Christ, kid, you see that fuckin' bison there?" he mutters to me as he runs the stencil and I try to stifle a laugh. "Like someone let a fuckin' elephant loose in the fuckin' joint!"

Just then, there was a horrendous clanging sound, and a thud that rattled the keys on the counter. "What the fuck?" Bossman snarled, and hurried into the next room. I followed behind, and we both came in to see the woman lying on the floor, her legs in the air, and the tattoo chair on its back. Now, if you don't know what kind of chair I mean, it's the same thing you see in a barber shop. This was one of the older kinds, with the quilted black vinyl seat and back, and the heavy, detatchable arms. It operates on a hydraulic system, where you pump up a foot lever to raise the chair, we're talking a big, heavy chrome piece of work furniture. And there it was, completely fipped on its back like a child's plastic chair.

We ran over to help her up off the tile floor, this place was floored in that old-style ceramic over cement, we were hoping to God she wasn't seriously injured. She wasn't, but she was understandably humiliated. We helped her to her feet as the other boss came charging out of the back room.

"What that fuck was that?" He snapped, a blue plume of cigarette smoke trailing behind him. He realized quickly what was going on and came over to help as we righted her. Grabing hold of the chair, he tried to turn it back over, and realized something was wrong. He said something to the other boss, and then went and fetched one of the other guys from outside. The two of them picked up the chair and carried it into the back while I moved a spare into its place. After a minute, I heard the boss barking my name from the back and I dashed in to see what was going on.

When I got there, the boss was standing there with one had on his head, completely perplexed, while the other guy was inspecting the underside of the chair, looking equally baffled. "Would ya look at that? What the fuck?" Bossman spat. I crouched down to take a look and I couldn't believe my eyes.

The underside of the seats on these chairs is a slab of wood, and this is what the hydraulic mechanism attatches to. On top of the wood is all the padding and then the seat cover. On this particular kind of chair, that wood is a slab of particle board, about two inches thick. This piece of wood was snapped completely in half like a saltine cracker, right down the middle. The bolts that attatched the hydraulic pole to the wood were completely torn free from their holes.

"Holy shit, look,"my co-worker said to Bossman, pointing to the hydraulic pole. We're talking about a solid steel rod, nearly four inches in circumference. This rod was bent, BENT, at a 15 degree angle.

"It looks like it got hit by a fucking garbage truck!" Bossman bellowed, and the three of us burst out laughing. The next day, he caled the guy who made the chairs, and he came over to pick it up from the shop. After bringing it back to his shop, he informed my boss over the phone that it was beyond repair, and whatever we did to it was well beyond what these things are supposed to withstand. "I'm tellin' ya," I heard Bossman bark into the phone," This fuckin' water buffalo sat on the fuckin' thing, what do you want me to do?!?" He ended up having to pay for a new one anyway. From then on, we crossed our fingers every time someone ginormous came in, hoping that the chairs could withstand the punishment....