Angry Ink

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.

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 writing 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 at it! 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.

 

Related articles

When a tattooist spells it wrong!

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.

The Nose Knows

HOLY FUCK I hope I can type this out without punching out my monitor. Seriously. I love my job, I do. But if there is one aspect of it that I can say I hate in its entirety, it's piercing. Yes, it's fast money and it takes no brains. I'm not talking about the complictaed stuff like ear projects and whatnot, I mean cranking out endless navels and tongues. I can do it with my eyes closed. The bad news is, I have to do it on people, people who seem to be of below average intelligence, below average social skills and below average ability to pay attention. The worst offenders, I have decided, are chicks who get their noses pierced. This is the new dipshit of the dipshits, the reigning queen of the slackjaws and assholes. After the last two days, I have determined I have no bigger nightmare than a chick with a nose ring.

DAY 1: I pierced this girl's nose the week prior. When I asked her what kind of jewelry she wanted, she said, "Something that doesn't look like I got my nose pierced." Well, that would be...not piercing your nose! How about that, sparky? She was concerned about her office not permitting it. Meanwhile, she has ratty-ass hair with purple streaks in it. She already looks like she spent the night in a dumpster, I doubt they'd even notice a tiny nose stud. So, I do the piercing, and give her the instructions. She stares at me as I talk, blank-eyed, her lips moving ever so slightly, as if she were listening to some puzzling code she must decipher. Occasionally she would slowly repeat something I had said, only screwing it up. I say, "No alcohol or peroxide on your piercing." She would nod and frown hard and slowly utter, "No alcohol...then peroxide." She was not a foreigner, either, so it's not like there was a freakin' language barrier, just an intellectual one. So I finally got her out of there after repeating myself for ten minutes.

Yesterday at work just before open, I see the same girl standing on the sidewalk, staring at me intently through the front window, as if she's trying to read something from afar. She finally comes in the shop, and I see the inflamed, red, bubbled-up wound where her nose piercing should have been. "Do you remember me?" She asks. Ugh, how could I forget? "You pierced my nose, and um. Um...I'm having an....emergency?" She squinches up her face and turns to show me. I'll say. She looked like she got shot in the side of the nose with a nail gun.

"So what happened?" I asked.

She sighs, rolls her eyes and looks as if she's attempting to think of a word. "So....um...it got all crusted to my nose? On the inside? And, um, I couldn't get it out? So, um, I stuck some wire cutters up there? And, um, I cut it off? And, then, um. Um, I couldn't get the piece out? So, um, I was panicking? And, um, I wanted to put my retainer in? So, um, I couldn't? So, um, I stuck this little piece in there? And, um, I wanna put in my retainer now?" She squinches up her face again, like a dog flinching from a rolled-up newspaper.

I take a deep breath. "So, let me see if I understand this. You got some crusty boogers on the jewelry in your nose. And your solution to that was to stick wire cutters up there and snip off half the jewelry?" She nodded, looking suddenly pleased with her resourcefulness.

"You do know," I continued, not really caring at this point if she could tell I was talking down to her, "That your body can't stick to metal, it's impossible. You had boogers and maybe some blood on there."

She started to nod her head, then caught herself, and started shaking her head no. I sighed and said, "Come on," going back to the piercing room. There was no point in having a discussion, it was time to help her out with the jewelry and get her out of the shop. "So," I asked, more out of need for a laugh than anything, "Why didn't you just come here to have us look at it if you were worried?" She giggled and shrugged. And why not? Shoving a tool up your nose is always preferrable to seeking professional help with a problem, isn't it?

 

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

DAY 2: I don't think I've ever come so close to punching someone in the face at work, at least not this week. A girl comes in looking for a nose stud. I show her the studs, she chooses one and I say, "Okay, come on back, I'll put it in for you." When someone buys jewelry from us, we put it in at no charge. She waves me away, "It's cool, I got it." I have learned that this is code for 'I am about to make the next twenty minutes of your life a living hell.' I run her credit card, hand her the baggie, and she holds it up in front of her. She frowns, staring at the bag, and I know the games are about to begin.

"Do you have a shorter one than this?" She asks. "Last time I got one, it was shorter."

"I can bend it for you if you like," I reply...hence the reason we put it in for you, dumbass. I go back to the piercing room, take the jewelry and begin adjusting it. She takes it, sticks it in her nose and then asks if we have thinner posts. I tell her we do, the one she has is an 18 gauge, we also have 20, which is thinner. She asks for one with a blue stone and I get it, bend it to her liking, and she pulls the first one out of her nose and inserts the new one.

"Oh, I like that much better."

"Do you want to put that on the same card?" I ask.

She freezes in surprise. "Oh, no, I'm taking this one."

"I know," I said, holding up the first stud in its plastic bag. "But you put this in your nose. We can't resell it. This is now your jewelry. I either have to throw it out, or it goes with you. But you can't just try on jewelry, see what you like and throw out the rest."

"But I don't want that one. I want this one, I'm buying this one."

I could feel that vein at the side of my neck beginning to throb. "I can't resell this to somebody. This has been up your nose. I wouldn't sell you a piece of jewelry that had been in someone else's body. These aren't shoes, we don't let people just try them on, it doesn't work that way. These things cost us money."

She huffed and cocked her hip out, making that googly-eyed mall face girls make when they have to wait too long in line at the food court. "Well, I'm only paying for this one, so...I don't know what to tell you," she finished, the end of the sentence dripping with disdain.

I could feel my left fist clench up at my side. I'm not a lefty, but I could have landed the perfect left hook to the side of her face from where I stood. Every ounce of strength I had channeled down to my forearm to keep it from moving.

"Fine," I sighed in defeat, and turned away to head back to the counter. This wasn't worth arguing. It would only end up with me holding her down, tearing the new stud out of her nose, shoving the old one down her thorat, and then using her head to open the front dorr before I tossed her face-first onto the curb.

"Well, I guess I know for next time," She snipped at my back, and my jaw tightened.

"Better not be a next time," I growled, and watched as she went out the door, muttering something about how stupid I was. She had no idea that she just missed a skull fracture by the slim margin of realization that I prefer staying out of jail.

Customers Say The Darndest Things! 3-D

A suburban gangster walks in and asks, "Do you guys do quotes, or whatever?"

I answer, "Yeah, what are you looking for?"

He looks astonished at my stupidity and replies, "A quote?"

 

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

A woman walks in and sets her handbag on the counter. She looks at the stacks of business cards on the counter, the flash racks off to the side, and the photos of work we've done. She then says to me, "I hear you guys do tattoos here?"

"That's the rumor, ma'am," I said.

 

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

"Am I gonna bleed?" A panicked young girl asked before I pierced her navel. Trying to calm her and make her laugh, I replied, "No, but birds might fly out of there."

She thought for a second and asked, "What kind of birds?"

 

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

 

"What does he do here?" someone asked me, gesturing towards our shop apprentice.

"He's the bitch," I told him. "He does all the shit work for us."

"So he doesn't do tattoos?"

"He's never even held a machine in his hands before."

The guy thinks that over for a second. "If he does my tattoo, can I get a discount?"

 

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

CLASSIC: I'm going to pierce a customer, with the needle in my hand. They jerk away, look at the needle and say, "You use a NEEDLE?" Mind you, I'm not doing their earlobes, I'm usually doing a tongue, navel. eyebrow, something that would not go well if I used a piercing gun. If I had a dollar for every time that one happened, I could retire.

 

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

YOUNG MOM WITH HER TODDLER SON IN HER ARMS: "Can I hold him while you tattoo me?"

ME: "No."

YMWHTSIHA: "Why not?"

Does that even warrant an explanation?

 

 

One Ring To Fool Them All

I really wish I didn't have to pierce. I've been doing it for as long as I've been tattooing. It's a good money-maker, it's quick, it's easy. But the headaches you get over piercings are ten times the ones you get over tattoos. The drama, the temper tantrums, the inability to listen and follow directions; it's all the things that make my stomach turn when piercings walk in the door.

This morning a woman came in looking for a piece of jewelry for her labret. She was done up ultra-ghetto fabulous. False eyelashes, too much lip gloss, dragon lady acrylic nails, clothes three sizes too small with her bra clearly visible in the cutaway back of the shirt. She had lost the ball to her labret, which we could have replaced, but she wanted the whole piece of jewelry. I showed her the labrets with the gemstones, which I said was just like her original piece of jewelry, and she immediately declared they were too expensive. She asked if there was anything bigger that cost less, and I said the hoops were the cheapest. She didn't like the plain ones and asked for a gem. We did have captive bead rings with gemstones on the ball, and they were about ten bucks less than the labret studs. She picked one out and she asked if I'd put it in for free. That's our policy anyhow, so I brought her back to the piercing room.

I donned a pair of gloves and reached up to remove the post of her old jewelry. She jerked back her head and said, "You have gloves on." I couldn't tell if it was a question or a statement, so I simply said, "Yeah, I have gloves on," and reached for the jewelry again. She jerked her head back more and asked why I had gloves on.

"I'm about to put my fingers in your mouth," I replied, and had no idea what the confusion was about. She had told me that she had gotten pierced at our other location, so I knew her piercer had worn gloves.

"What's that on your hand?" She took hold of my index finger and rubbed her thumb over the tip with a puzzled look. "What is that on your hand?" She asked again, rubbing her thumb against the ridge of my fingernail. I almost said, "My fingernail," before she asked, "What is that wet stuff?"

"Oh, that's some lube for the jewelry."

She jerked her head back again. "This gonna hurt," she declared, pressing her lips tightly shut.

"It's not gonna hurt," I reassured her, "the lube is just so the jewelry slips in easier."

She opened her mouth and I pulled out the post. "That hurt!" She yelped.

"Is it a new piercing?" I asked.

"Oh, no, it's old. More than a year. Why?"

"I was wondering. If it hurt, I thought it was a fresh piercing." I inserted the hoop, and bent it back into place, carefully aligning the ends and inserting the ball. "There ya go, all done!" I said.

She leaned over to the table and began to inspect what I had laid out on the dental bib; the empty jewelry packet, the open packet of lube. "I wanna see how it look. Lemme see how it look."

"There's a mirror on the wall behind you."

"Lemme see how the jewelry look," She said with furrowed brow, intently staring at the open packet of lube.

"Look in the mirror."

"Oh." She suddenly seemed startled that I was still there. She went over to the mirror and gasped in horror. "Oh no! No, no no! It goes in my mouth!"

I had no idea what to say. "Um, yeah, it's a piercing in your mouth, basically."

"No, no, no, I can't have that, I can't have that around my lip. Why didn't you explain that to me?"

"Um....I showed you the stud and you said you didn't want it, you asked for something cheaper, and I showed you the hoops and you said that's what you wanted."

"But you didn't tell me it was gonna go in my mouth! You didn't explain that to me."

"I didn't think I had to."

"Well, yeah, I can't have that, I thought it was gonna just hang under my lip or something."

"How would it do that? The studs are the ones that go under your lip, the rings go around your lip."

"Well, I don't want this, I want the other one."

"That's fine, but you have to pay for it."

Her eyes went wide. "What?"

"That's a used pierce of jewelry, I can't put it back and resell it. I have to charge you for it."

"Well, that's--you can't do that!"

"That's how it works, I'm sorry. You can't go into a restaurant, eat half a sandwich and give it back, and have them sell it to someone else, we can't do that here. It was in someone's mouth, it's used, we have to sell it to you."

"But I don't want it!"

"I understand that, ma'am." I was doing my best to stay calm, despite my rising adrenaline. "If there was something wrong with the jewelry, if the stone fell out, or it was broken, we would just give you another one, we can't take back a piece of used jewelry and give you another one because you didn't like it."

"Well, you can just throw that one in the trash."

I was dumbfounded. "This is our product, and we are a business. We pay for the jewelry. We can't just go throwing out stuff because someone didn't like it. You have to pay for it."

"Fine, then give me a deal on the new one, the other one like I wanted."

"I can't do that."

"Why not? Is there a manager I can speak to?"

"I am."

"Well, then, if you're the boss, you can give me a deal, then."

"No, I can't," I said, exhausted of this exchange. "If you go buy a pair of shoes, and you don't like them, you don't get a discount on the next pair. And they don't throw the old ones in the trash. It's called business and that's how it's done."

"No, that ain't right, if you go buy a pair of shoes and they don't fit, you can return them." Her voice started to crack and tears welled up in her eyes. I don't know if that was a sympathy ploy or if she was really that upset. I was sorry she was upset, but the jewelry is not bought with my money. I've given people the wrong size of jewelry before, admitted the mistake, gave them a new piece of jewelry and ate the cost myself. I just have a hard time thinking I need to kowtow to people who expect something for nothing after a change of heart.

"Yes, that's if they don't fit. Or if something's wrong with them. And you haven't worn them. There is nothing wrong with that jewelry. I showed you the studs first, you didn't want to pay that much, so I showed you what's cheaper. You don't like what you picked, and I'm sorry about that. But we can't give away free stuff because of opinions, or lose money because you changed your mind. And we can't just throw out our merchandise, and we can't resell used jewelry. It's a health code violation, there are laws, and we have to follow them. That's all I can tell you."

"You mean!" She spat. Ugh, here we go. "I do it ALL the time, return stuff if I don't like it." I would like to know how this works. I've gone back to return unopened stuff with a receipt in my hand and been turned away for a myriad of reasons. I was too late, sale items were final, certain merchandise cannot be returned, et cetera. I cannot even imagine buying a pair of shoes and trying to return them after I had worn them based on the notion that I didn't like them. I understood her frustration, but I can't just return things or give things away, or at a discount, just because someone didn't like it. Were that the case, we'd have every whiny teenage girl in here trying on navel rings like they were Abercrombie shirts. At the end of the day there would be a heap of jewelry in the corner and we would be hanging a "Going Out Of Business" sign in the front window. You get known for stuff like that quickly, anyway. People will flock to you if they think they're getting one over on you. The last shop I worked at had a ploy like that, we advertised $20.00 tattoos. There were none to be had, our minimum was $40. People came in all day looking for them, and we were expected to upsell them to something more, like it was a damned used car lot. People would scream and yell and carry on that we were liars, and that they were promised this and that--it was awful. It made me sick to my stomach. But I digress.

She paid the money at last and stormed out the door, sniffling and muttering that she was going somewhere else. This, of course, begs the question: if she was too cheap or too broke to pay for what she wanted in the first place, why was she suddenly willing to pay (albeit at a discount) for another piece of jewelry? Everyone wants a deal, I know. I can't figure out how people suddenly get all in an uproar when the deal isn't what they thought it was. Which reminds me of another story about the tattoo grab bag. Stay tuned.....

Cash And Carry

A young man comes in and is asking questions about his first tattoo. I'm explaining everything to him about the procedure. He seems very interested, even though he has no plans to do it that day. I hand him my card, and he thanks me. Then he asks, "Oh....if I get the tattoo, do I have to pay for it that day?"

These are the moments I wish I could say what I was thinking. Something along the lines of, "When you eat in a restaurant, do they let you come back and pay for it a week later?" Jumpin' jupiter. A lot of the questions people ask seem silly to us, only because we're used to doing tattoos all day. I try to keep that in mind, as the questions might seem silly to us, but to someone who knows nothing about tattoos, they make perfect sense. But when people are asking questions that have no connection to any rational logic whatsoever, it is so hard to keep my mouth shut and be polite. This is why I have ulcers. I'm reading a site right now called Not Always Right, and I'm over here laughing my ass off. Tattooing is actually part of the service industry, so aside from the unique problems we deal with that are specific to tattoos, we also have the headaches that are typical of restaurants, bars, retail, hospitals, et cetera. I've run across a few tattoo-related stories on there, I'm about to send them some of my own....