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....

A Little History Lesson

I've been getting quite a few comments in the last few days, and most of them say the same thing, "Are you so poor you have to tattoo drunks?" There is a very long answer to that question, and I'll start right now.

No. I'm not so poor I have to do anything. I can sit in my section all day and refuse tattoos right and left. I can refuse to pierce, I can basically come to the shop and sleep all day if I see fit. But the point is, I get paid to pierce and do tattoos, I don't get an hourly, so it doesn't behoove me to sit here all day taking up space. As far as anyone coming in to get tattooed or pierced, if I refuse to do it, someone else here will. Why? Because we, in the collective sense, have no choice. SOMEONE here will do it, or, by the owner's hand, heads WILL roll. I'll explain that right now.

The owner of this establishment started this shop nearly 30 years ago. Back in those days, tattooing was a different animal entirely. Tattoo shops were rough, seedy, smoky joints, inhabited by grizzled, hard-as-nails guys who probably did time, most likely had dealings with the underworld/underbelly of society and were in it for the money. When my boss opened this place, he wasn't here to make the covers of magazines and have a reality show and be a celebrity, he was looking to do what he liked and make a shitload of money. He was involved with biker gangs and such, and there were fights aplenty in the shop. The only women coming in to get tattoos back then were some reeeeeeeal shady chicks. And it wasn't just here, the industry on the whole was like that.

Back in the day, the tattoo artist was often travelling with a carnival, or on the boardwalk at Coney Island, or in one of the seedy bowery shops that were most often in the red light district of big cities. There was no such thing as going to art school and then becoming a tattooer. Tattoo shops weren't in the suburbs, they didn't look like sushi bars. They were crusty joints where some crabby old men were going to tattoo everyone with the same needle all day and wipe the blood off with rags that they used repeatedly. They didn't wear gloves and they smoked and drank and ate and cursed as they worked, and they beat the shit out of their customers if they got rowdy. They didn't work 'by appointment only'. The lights were on and someone was home, waiting for those sailors and whores to come staggering in. That's what's called a "street shop", and I am employed in one of the last true ones standing.

Here's a good link for you if you want to see what I mean. Meet C.W. Eldridge, curator of the Tattoo Archive. There you'll find all sorts of stories of the old days, photos of what things used to be like, and the history of the founders of modern tattooing. You'll hear stories from those days that would make mine look like nursery rhymes. Mr. Eldridge is a treasure in the industry, he's keeping the pioneer days alive. Anyone claiming to be a true "tattoo enthusiast" ought to learn where it all started. The slick, artsy stuff you see on television is far removed from what it was like when my boss first opened his doors for business.

Flash forward to today...the business has gentrified to the point of being nearly unrecognizable. In some instances, that's for the better. Sterilization, disposable equipment, advancement of the art form itself and the vastly improved quality of the pigments, all are changes that were much needed. However, the industry has lost its rebellious spark, and some of that outlaw ethos that made it dangerous and exciting. To refuse a grown adult a tattoo because they've been drinking seems counterintuitive to old-school tattooers. I don't claim to be one, but I came up under the tutelage of a few of them, so I was taught to have their mentality. And with the old-schoolers, the bottom line is that tattooing is a business. I agree almost entirely. I don't think I ought to have to work on someone who is unruly or violent or unable to speak clearly. But, if someone needs a little liquid courage to get into the chair, I'm not going to fault them. Not everyone is a tough guy, but some people need to pretend for a night here and there. I used to have to drink myself stupid to get on an airplane, I understand that sort of fear.

So, to that, I will now make this point. I don't own my own shop. I work in someone's shop. I have to follow their rules and do what they say. My boss would have a stroke if we pushed someone out the door for being drunk. If they made their way here, they knew what they want, and they had the money to pay, then they better be in someone's chair. The rent doesn't get paid by turning away business. So, if that is his philosophy, and this is his shop, and if I'm going to work here, then I have to do what's expected of me, whether I agree or not. We don't get to refuse people because their skin sucks or they're jerks, or we're about to close, we do what the boss tells us to do, and that's that, that's what it means to have a job.

If I worked at Dairy Queen, and I decided I wasn't going to give a guy his Blizzard because he was drunk and, in my opinion, making a poor dietary decision, I would get fired on the spot. So, the same goes here. If I was violently opposed to doing things my boss' way, I should quit, right? But, I'm doing something I like to do, that pays me very, very well. And a lot of those goofs who were stinking drunk and out of their minds the first time I worked on them, came back later, sober as a judge. And they got more work, and brought their wives and co-workers and friends and got to be great customers that I've forged a relationship with. So, there you have it. I hope that explains it better for you.

Besides, if we never had crazy drunks in here, I wouldn't have so many interesting stories to tell, and you'd be back to reading about Paris Hilton's vagina.

I Am The Cockmaster! or, Pierced-Penis-palooza

Now, I'm going to talk about a sensitive subject here....male genital piercings. All you guys who are now turning green, feel free to go back to YouPorn to see male genitals in more comfy surroundings.

All right, now that the rest of us adults are still here, I'll continue. I pierce, as you know, and being a scavenger, I will pierce anything, with an exception--the guiche. And if you can't look at that and imagine WHY on earth I wouldn't want to do that, then there is something very wrong with your mind. I get calls all the time asking me if I'll do the guiche, and I politely say no. And then they ask why. And I say that I just prefer not to. And they ask why not. And I say I'd rather not pierce such an area. And then they ask what's wrong with it. And I begin to feel like I'm talking to a two-year old. Isn't "Because" a satisfactory answer for anyone anymore? And then I usually end up blurting out something to the effect of "because I'm not interested in spelunking anyone's nasty taint today!" and slamming the phone back on the cradle.

But, the subject of male genital piercing is one of endless fascination for most. People ask if I "Pierce, you know...down there...on guys...on their..." Oh, for God's sake, grow up. If you can't even say it, I sure shouldn't be taking to you about it. But the answer is a sound, "Yes. Yes I do." And people go crazy over that. "Ohhhh, my God! Doesn't that bother you?" And the answer to that is a sound, "No, not particularly." And I'll tell you why. Becuase it's a body part that all men have, we all learned about it in health class in school and there's no point in being a baby about it. It's part of my job. After doing it umpteen times, I could care less about any of it, it doesn't shock me, disgust me, rile me, or offend me. It's my job, I get paid to do it. In fact, I get paid more to do those piercings than any other piercings. And as there's not too many places in town that even want to deal with it, I get a pretty good amount of business that way. It takes me less than five minutes to do the piercings, and I get paid what most burger-flippers get for sweating over a grill for four hours, so, it makes perfect sense to me.

Now, there are several kinds of piercings you can get, the Prince Albert being the most common, mostly because that's the one that everyone seems to have heard of. It's purely decorative. I don't see the point in it, because you're damned to a life to peeing sitting down, for the most part, for something that serves no function. I can't see how putting a hula hoop on the tip of your dick would please a woman, but, hey, whatever.

People always ask me, "Do they have to be hard when you do it?" Well, there is so much to say about that. For one, no, it's not necessary. Two, think about it. Unless you are the sickest, most extreme masochist, you CANNOT stay hard while a total stranger in rubber gloves unpleasantly manhandles your junk, stabs a needle through the head, fishes a metal hoop in after that, and then grabs a wad of paper towels to stop the copious bleeding from your urethra. If you haven't passed out from that process, you're already a hero, maintaining a throbbing erection besides would just make you an ultra-freak. And three, I really don't want to have to a.) jerk someone off or b.) have him jerk himself off to get "fluffed" for the occasion. I don't know if I would be flattered or frightened if a dude got it up in my presence under such circumstances.

One time, though, a guy came in who clearly was not all there and possibly inebriated, and he did just that, whipped it out and started stroking while my back was turned. I finished setting up all my acoutrements and turned around, gloves on, and immediately yelled, "What the hell are you doing?" He looked at me stupidly and said, "Gettin' it ready for ya." I snapped back at him, "Well, fucking stop, it's ready!" Mercifully he let go and it shrank down so small, I practically had to reach into his abdominal cavity to get it back out so I could pierce him. Yeesh. No wonder so few shops will perform such services.

There are other piercings which are less horrible; frenum, for example. More functional, less painful, less bloody. Whatever floats people's boats, I say. I couldn't see doing that, but if that's what they want, if it maked them ahppy or their girlfriend or boyfriend or masters or slaves happy, well, then, I'm making the world a brighter place, one stranger's penis at a time. In fact, I've earned the unfortunate moniker of "Cockmaster" among my co-workers. I just joke that they're all jealous that I get to play with all the wee-wees and they don't. But I draw the line at taints, and I stand firmly behind that line. I don't get paid nearly enough for that. Now, if we're talking about proctologist kind of money, I might be persuaded....after all everyone has a price!

Holy Heathens! or, Damn You, Nicole Richie!

Wow, I haven't been on here in a minute. There have been a lot of transitions going on here at the shop, and I've not been thinking too much about regaling the world with sordid tales of tattoo terror. But have one that's been brewing for a while, I think I'm ready to spill.

Nicole Richie, for those of you fortunate enough to be unaware, has a tattoo of a rosary around her ankle. The cross dangles down onto the top of her foot. She's had it for a while, and as of late I've been replicating this same tattoo like mad. Now, let me start by saying this; I have no moral objections to what people want to tattoo on themselves. What I mean, is I don't object to the point that I refuse to do the tattoo. You want your main squeeze's name on you? Fine. Gang symbol? Suit yourself. Swastika? No prob. So I don't get uppity about religious tattoos, I rather like most of the designs.

I was raised a very strict Catholic, I no longer practice, but from the years of church and school I have a very sound knowledge of the symbolism, stories and what have you. Now, putting a rosary around your neck like a necklace would have gotten you cracked on the head with a ruler by a vicious nun. I can only imagine what they might have done if they had seen one of us winding it around our ankle. So, purely out of habit, I cringe a little at the notion of tattooing a rosary around an ankle, but I'll still do it.

What concerns me, however, is the fact that they don't know what it is or what it's for, they want it becuase someone famous has it.The first time I was ever called upon to do such a tattoo, I was anxious as I was drawing the stencil, making sure I had the proper amount of beads, trying to remember the Mysteries and the order that they come in. And then I had a thought: "It's 1 am on a Sunday. This woman is crocked out of her mind. She's putting it on her foot. I doubt she even has any idea how many beads there are supposed to be." And then I proceeded to do the tattoo with little more thought.

I have repeated this same scenario many times, last night's episode really ruffled me. A young girl came in looking for the Nicole Richie tattoo, and I dutifully pulled out the stencil. She looked at it, pointed to the center and said, "I don't like that, could I have it without that? I don't know if it means something..." Yes, it did, and I explained it to her, that it was one of the few things that separated a rosary from a string of beads. She said, "Oh, well, leave it in, I guess."

There are five beads above the crucifix, and I mean a crucifix, not a cross, there is a difference. A crucifix has Jesus nailed to it. The Nicole Richie tattoo only has a cross on it, so the whole thing is blasphemous from the beginning. She asked if I could make that part shorter, less beads on it. I explained why there were so many beads. "Oh," She replied. "Just leave it, I guess. I just want it to look sexy and cute." Sexy and cute? Would you do a Jewish Menorah, but make it have only six candles so it looked sexy and cute? I was completely baffled by all this. "Is nothing sacred?" I found myself thinking. That old reverence will never leave me, I guess.

So, I did the tattoo and she was happy as a clam and that was that. She scuffed out of here and I felt the sting of the imaginary ruler on my knuckles and Sister Anne-Lucille's hoarse invectives echoing in my ears. Sometimes I wonder if there really is a hell like they told us back then. And if there is, and if I'm not already damned to go there on account of the transgressions of my youth, would doing tattoos like that Nicole Richie mess put me on the guest list? I bet if I am, my punishment is going to be having to tattoo perfect, concentric circles on fat girls' stomachs for an eternity. All you other tattooers know how that would be.

Time To Buy A Watch

I suppose this is not anything unique to the tattoo industry, so there will be lots and lots of you out there who can relate to this. We are open for a set number of hours per day. Those hours are clearly posted on the front door of the place. Those hours are clearly posted in our phone book ad. They are on the website, we get calls on the phone asking for our hours, and those hours have not changed in well over a decade, possibly more. And, yet, some people seemt to be unable to get here within those hours. They come racing to the door just as we're packing it up for the night and then either want to take some leisurely time to "browse", as they say---it's not a fucking bookstore! Or, they want some crazily gigantic tattoo, and are astonished that we actually WANT to leave when our scheduled twork time is over, and get home to our families, significant others, or substance abuse problems. They can't believe that we aren't overjoyed at the prospect of surrendering even more of the little free time we have to attend to some inconsiderate nitwit with no common sense or courtesy for others.

"Oh, come on!" They wheedle and whine, disbelieving that, even though the doors have been open for fourteen hours, we don't want to stay for three or four more. Despite the fact that many of us have been here for eight, ten hours and more, they can't believe that we don't wish to hang out on our free time and work some more. "Just one little tattoo," they beg, or, "Can't we just look around for a few minutes?" Well, in a word, hell no. Manage your time better.

Do you really want to get something permanently etched into your skin by someone who is now pissed off at you because their dinner is getting cold at home, their main squeeze is horny and waiting, or their kids are going to bed without a hug and a kiss from Daddy/Mommy? I never go into a restaurant less than an hour before they close. That is just begging to get your food spit in. And I'll tell you what, as a onetime restaurant employee, we sure the hell did just that to the asshats who came in fifteen minutes before we closed and then lounged over their meal for hours, not caring that they alone were keeping six or seven people from their lives. So, coming in to a tattoo shop and keeping us from home/the bar/bed is a surefire way to get the tattoo equivalent of having your food spit in. You're not going to get a shit tattoo, but we sure as hell aren't going to take our precious time and trick it out.

On Saturdays I put in a particularly gruelling shift, We're busy in the mornings and again at night, so most of us are required to be here for the whole day, which is about fourteen hours. Now, I work until close on Friday night, so when I get here Saturday morning, I'm tired, surly, and dreading a very long day. Once I get rolling, get a few cups of coffee in me, I accept my fate and deal with it. But by the time Midnight rolls around, it's the big countdown until quitting time. And it never fails, one of us will get held hostage until the wee hours by some douchebag who slips in just under the buzzer and gets something huge and ridiculous. I was the lucky one this time.

I was in my section, it was about 1:15 am and I was feeling somewhat chipper, looking forward to the end of the night. Ususally after such a shift, I go home and pass out, but I felt pretty good this time, and had a gumption to go to a club I haven't frequented in a while, do a bit of cruising and carousing. A pal of mine from here was in on it, and we made plans to meet up there for some trouble. Just then, one of the floorwalkers pops in and announces there's a guy out front who wants the playing card suits in a row down his forearm. Sweet, that would be an easy one, make a few more bucks before I hit the road and it would kill off that last bit of time.

When I went out to show him my drawing, he exicitedly okayed it, and then asked about something to go around it. I asked what he had in mind, and he said some tribal. I asked if he wanted just a little around the suits, and he said, "Oh, no, like this," And proceeded to run his fingers all up, down and around his forearm.

"So you want basically a tribal half-sleeve?" I asked in disgust.

He nodded enthusiastically. "And you want to do this tonight?" I asked. Please say no, please say no, please say no, I pleaded in my mind.

"Oh, yeah!" he asserted. I felt my stomach do a flip-flop. A half-sleeve. Of all tribal. At 1:30 am. On the end of a 14 hour shift. Kill me now.

I got to work on his arm, and by 2:30, my phone got to ringing. It was my cohort, wondering if I was coming out or not. "Rub it in, Buttpipe," I snarled into the phone as he laughed heartily at my predicament.

"Sorry to keep you late," my customer said to me after I hung up.

I shrugged. "It's no big deal," I replied lamely. I don't make it a point to bitch at customers about it, I play off like I don't mind getting held hostage, but I sure do fume to myself about it.

"Well, at least you're doing something cool, so you don't mind," he consoled me.

Now, wait just a doggone minute, here. I'm doing something cool? Let's get one thing straight. I like tattooing. I enjoy doing tattoos. But doing tattoos is my job. And I have been doing my job for a long time, I have been in the same shop for a long time, I do my job for long hours, under difficult circumstances and ususally under some kind of stress. It has very much become a job. And if I was doing tattoos purely for the love of doing them, I would do them out of my house for free, and only when I felt like it. But I don't, I do tattoos because I get money to do them. So, therefore, it falls under the same considerations I'd give to someone who works at, oh, let's say, Dairy Queen. I love Dairy Queen. I would have a blast back there making blizzards and sneaking tastes of ice cream, for a while. And then it would become routine, uneventful and repetitive, and I would get annoyed by assholes who come in five minutes before we close and can't decide if they want a Peanut Buster Parfait or a Chipwich. So, as much as I like Dairy Queen, I don't imagine anyone there thinks making ice cream treats is cool, they do it for money and that's that. What I do seems cool to people who don't do it day in and day out for years and years and years. So, the insinuation that I love to stay late to work more galls me. Does anyone want to hang out for three or four more hours to work? Ya think those folks at Dairy Queen relish the opportunity to hang out after close to make some ice cream just for you, because you love ice cream so much that you can't possibly respect the operating hours of a business, and you can't respect the fact that they have lives that don't revolve around serving your sorry ass? Makes a lot more sense when I put it that way, doesn't it?

I was a bartender briefly, and I once worked for a big, gruff guy who used to get mad as hell at closing time. All you bar/club workers know about this; You gave last call, and most people would finish up their drinks and head out. But you had those few assholes who would stay put after the lights went on and the bouncers were bellowing, "Come on people, let's GOOOOOOO!" My boss would tell said assholes to get a move on, and they'd always plead, "Oh, come on, man, let us hang out for a few minutes!" To which he would calmly ask, "Where do you work?" They would tell him the name of whatever corporation it was, and my boss would say, "Okay, at five o'clock tomorrow, I'll be down there and hang out at your desk and keep you there after quitting time." The drunk would look all baffled and say, "Well, you can't....I don't want you to do that..." And my boss would say, "Then quit doing it to me. Out." And that got 'em moving. Oh, how I wish my boss here had the same mindset.

People don't respect our hours because this is considered "recreation", the same way no one respects closing time at a bar. People come here to do something that's fun for them. But that doesn't change the fact that this is work for us. And we're people too, with lives and families and a serious need for food and sleep. So, please, have a little respect. We're happy to do great work for you, but on our work time, not our personal time. Don't make me come sit on your desk at five o'clock and talk your ear off when you're trying to head out of work and get back to your life.

Talking Asses and Proper Terminology

I certainly don't expect people who don't tattoo and/or pierce for a living to know the proper terminology for all the things we do and use. I certainly wouldn't go into a machine shop and start giving all the stuff in there names that I would think are appropriate, nor would I start talking out of my ass like I know something about their stuff. So, keeping that in mind, it's hard for me not to snicker into my sleeve when I hear some of the phrases people come up with for the equipment we use. And what really kills me is the smarty-pants know-it-alls who try to impress their friends about the tools of our trade.

Most people refer to the tattooing apparatus as a "tattoo gun". This one I will overlook because, once upon a time, I thought it was called a tattoo gun as well. One of my mentors broke me of that on my first day as a wee apprentice. "You shoot people with a gun. You tattoo people with a machine." I still hear that echoing in my head to this day, and I cringe whenever I hear a fellow artist call it a "gun".

I think the best is what some of the body jewelry gets called. "Barbell" is a word that seems to confound even the smartest of folks. It's a stick with a ball on either end, it looks like the barbells in the old cartoons, simple enough. But the things I've heard it called just kill me, and it's so hard for me not to burst out laughing when customers ask for one. Nothing like having a wide-eyed young girl coming in and asking if we have "the poles with two balls." I wish at that moment all the guys on staff could simultaneously drop trou and show her all the poles with two balls we have in stock. Of course, we'd all be paying her therapy bills for the next seven years, but, by God, it would be so worth it.

And there are plenty more clever names for barbells, too. "Dumbbell" (now that one I can sort of see, it's still describing a piece of gym equipment that is the same as a barbell, but smaller.), "Dumb-bar" (from here on out I don't get any of these) "Bell-bar" (does it jingle?) , and my all-time favorite, "Barbarian" (I shit you not. When this woman asked for a barbarian, I directed her to a sheet of flash with some horned-helmet wearing, axe-swinging Frank Frazetta looking stuff. When she looked totally perplexed and explained that she wanted jewelry for her tongue, I was almost in tears trying to contain my laughter).

What kills me is the smartass who stands in my doorway, watching his friend get a tattoo and loudly explaining all the technical stuff to the rest of the group in tow, usually young, dumb, females, possibly slightly inebriated. "The outline uses one needle and the coloring one uses two needles," He'll say sagely as the gals ooh and aah over his smarts while his friend squirms in the chair. I love to correct this clown. And not nicely. For those who were around for the fine-line craze of the 80's, you know what shit those tattoos turned into, and that's why single needle liners are so rarely used it's not even funny. Thank God for the resurgence of traditional....And could you imagine trying to color in a giant tribal with a two-needle shader, as if there even was such a thing? Egads. Or they announce to their admiring listeners that the lining is done with one little needle, and the shading is with one big needle. When I hear that one, I picture making these giant punctures with a needle the size of a pencil, and the dude's arm is covered with these gaping, ragged holes with blood pouring everywhere. What a horrid thought. I make sure to shoot that idea down quickly as well.

What's cool is when they half-ask, half tell, as if they want to test my knowledge of what I've been doing for the last decade. "Black hurts more than color." They say to their friends, and then tack on a "Right?', addressed to me, so I can confirm his wisdom and make him look extra-cool in front of Tyffannie, Ashleeyie, and Breeannieah.

"No," I reply sternly, and tell him it all feels the same. Same needle, same technique, it doesn't matter the color of the ink that's going in. Coloring and/or shading all feels the same no matter what color you use. Then he has to half-backpedal, half-argue with me, as the teenybopper fan club is now beginning to doubt the infinite sagacity of their friend. "Really? I thought it was, I mean, I heard a lot of people say that, I mean--"

"Nope," I'll cut him off, trying to save him from his own buffoonery before it's too late.

I like it when they give their friends the hushed, play-by-play, like that of a golf announcer. "Now's where they change needles for the next color," he whispers with awe. Then I unceremonioulsy dunk the tube in a cup of water, step on the gas and rinse it clean. I dip in the new color and go back to it. "Where's the new needle?" one of the gallery gals will ask their friend, with great concern in her little voice.

"No new needle. I rinse and move on," I reply loudly, and now Mr. Know-it-all is Mr. Douche-it-all. Ha ha!

I love it when dudes swagger in and try to look bad-ass in front of their friends. One in particular stands out in my mind. I asked them if they needed help when they walked in the front door. The big dumb lummox leading the way slapped his bicep and said, "I wanna get some paint."

I pointed off in some direction and told him, "Home Depot is that way," without changing expression one iota. His friends cracked up laughing, and I was high-fiving myself inside my head.

Like I said, I forgive ignorance. I don't know much about anyone else's profession, and I won't pretend like I do. And I don't expect anyone to know all about mine, either. But if you walk in talking out of your ass, I promise you'll  leave feeling like you are a talking ass.

Satan's Bitch, or, Ready For The Rubber Room

This will be a bit lengthy, but I assure you, hang in there, it's worth the payoff. All I can say is this; I have, as of now, met THE most fucked-up human being I have ever met in my whole life. I would never believe this story unless it happened to me. Let me put it to you this way...how's this for a conversation opener: "I have a terrible fear of being gang raped." Now that I have your curiosity piqued, I'll elaborate....

She called the shop and begged for someone who worked in a private room, me being one of the few, I got the call. She asked if I could do a certain tattoo for less than a certain price, one of our competitors had given her a quote and she wanted to know if I could beat that. I said I'd have to see it, she said it's only letters. I said, well, what kind? She didn't know. I was wondering how she got the quote then. I told her to come in and show me something from our font books and I could give her an idea. She whined that it was really far to make the trip. I hate those calls, they want you to give them an answer, even though there isn't one. If you want to know how hard it is to price a tattoo on the phone, and how annoyed we get when you press us for prices despite the fact that we say we can't, try this: call a car dealership and ask how much a car is. When they ask what kind, say, "Not too big, but not too small. Maybe a blue one." Keep acting vague and stupid for about five more minutes as the dealer tries to figure out what you want. If you listen carefully enough, you might actually be able to hear the guy pop an aneurism.

But I digress, I'll save the phone rant for another day. I sighed and told her I could probably beat the price, just come on in. "Great!" She answered cheerfully, "I'm right down the street, I'll be there in five minutes!" What happened to being 'too far away'? Oh, well, I thought, people will tell us anything to get the answer they want.

When she arrived, her arms were laden with paperwork, a bottle of water, a plastic cup of pop, a box of wheat thins, a gigantic bottle of hand sanitizer, and a book. I wondered if she was moving in. She picked out a font quickly, some Old English variation, but refused to tell me what she wanted it to say. "I'll tell you when we get in there," she said, meaning my room. So I brought her back there. "It's a joke between me and my finacee," she told me. Long way to go for a joke, I thought, but I was curious.

In the room, she ordered me to lock the door, which I did, hesitantly. she took a breath, and said, "Don't think I'm weird or anything," She warned. I wasn't liking where this was going. Her odd behavior, her fidgetiness, I was beginning to think I had a real live on on my hands. I was right.

"I want 'Satan's Bitch', across here," she began, drawing a line across her chest with her fingers, and then turned her back and did the same across the top of her butt. "And I want 'God's Wife' here."

"Uhhhhh huh," I said, turning to my desk and getting some tracing paper. Whoooo, Nellie, I thought.

"I wore my favorite swimsuit, to make sure it's not going to show at the pool and all, you know," She informed me. "But I'll have to take it off for you to do the tattoo, 'cause it's really low on my breasts, you know." Good thinking, Sparky, I thought to myself. Now you're using your noggin. I was tracing away when she piped up again from behind me. "I have a terrible fear of getting gang raped." As if she were telling me what she had for lunch. I didn't even know what to say. "If anyone kidnaps me and tries to fuck me, I think that will scare 'em, seeing 'Satans' Bitch' on my chest, don't you?'

"Sure," I agreed. I priced the tattoo a bit lower than what she had been quoted at the other shop and she got upset. "Really? But I want to pay you _________ hundred dollars." So what was all that fuss about on the phone? Sheesh, this one didn't even know what planet she was on, and the tattoo she was getting wasn't even the most obvious indicator.

She felt compelled to explain her choice, even though I really didn't want to know. "I was on this rugby team? And there was this really mean girl--I've never had a lesbian experience. But we called her Satan because she was so mean. And my finacee thinks it's really hot 'cause, you know, I won't do that. So he can see this tattoo while we're having sex." Yeesh. I was glad I had my back to her so she couldn't see me cringe. But she kept on going regardless of the fact that I was trying to ignore her to the best of my abilities.

"And the 'God's Wife', that's cause, like, my Mom was a preacher. And so we all have tattoos, 'cause she told us not to get them. but I told my fiancee that I was never going to get married, I was going to get married to God. So, it's funny, you know?" Hilarious. I was nearly pissing in my pants. I'm sure no one would find that funny, except the orderlies who would be wiping her ass in the nursing home one day.

"Do you have some tape I could put on my nipples?" She asked. "So I can cover them, you know, it's going real low." Oh, so Satan's Bitch is modest! How cute! I assured her I did and kept drawing. "You know, I get bikini waxes," she said, and I almost dropped my pencil, "and it's like, the thing is falling off, you have to tape it on, they're all looking at your cooter." Right, like an asthetician is in it for the 'cooter'. They want to do your wax and get it over with. Besides, if you're willing to lie spread-eagle on a table and have a stranger rip hot wax off your ass crack, is there any point in being shy?

She suddenly began to panic. "Don't tell any of those guys out there what I'm getting!" she barked. I promised her I would not, that they wouldn't even ask. "Yes they will, "she replied sullenly. "I know it!" I reassured her it would be fine. She then told me to make something up to tell them. How about 'Looney Bitch', I thought.

I sighed and went out front to make the stencil. "Hey, check this out," I said with a grin, showing one of the guys out there. He laughed and asked if she was hot. "Nope," I told him, "but she's bat-shit crazy!"

Trying to put the stencil on was a nightmare. She taped bits of paper towel over her nipples and kept telling me "More tape!" I told her she was sticking the tape in the spots where I was going to put the stencils and she needed to relax. "But I don't want you to see!" She whined. Finally, I asked her which was worse, me seeing a tiny peek of her areola, or her having a crooked tattoo for the rest of her life. She finally relented and I went to put the stencil on. She immediately lifted her hands to cover her well-taped nipples.

"Put your hands down," I told her.

"Go lock the door."

"It is locked."

"Check it again." Jesus, obsess much? I knew I was in for one of those where you have to reposition the stencil fifty times because it's off by one millionth of a nanocentimenter. I checked the door and turned back to her, suddenly she gasped and covered her breasts again with her hands. "Now what?" I asked. She pointed frantically to the mirror. "Can anyone see through there?" Oh, hell.

"No, no one can see through there, it's not a two-way mirror, I'll take you out there and show you myself." My patience was long gone at that point.

"Cover it with paper towels!" She yelped. Now, my boss doesn't look kindly on us giving paying customers the boot, even if they act crazy/rude/impossible/dangerous. If I had my way, I'd have flung that door open wide, shoved her into the hallway, taped nipples and all, hit her in the head with her stack of papers, and maybe thrown her shirt out there too, just before I slammed the door in her face as she screamed. However, I do not have my own way, and I began grudgingly taping paper towels over the mirror. She yanked more off the roll and handed them to me. "More, more, I can still see some down there," she coached. I was wondering if she ever smoked crack cocaine, as I had heard of crackheads spending hours covering all the windows in their homes to keep the FBI or whomever from spying on them. "I have a fear of getting raped," she said again, as if looking and raping were the same thing and that was why I was taping paper towels over my mirror like a dope. "I'm a travel nurse," she added. I have no idea what that is, anyone know? Anyway, she continued, "You wouldn't believe some of the stuff that happens." I was really hoping she wasn't going to tell me. Luckily, she didn't.

So, finally, the room was secure, the stencil got applied, after a good twenty or so adjustments, I lost count at about seventeen, I shit you not. So I get her to recline in the chair, and she asks if she could do her paperwork while I tattoo her chest. I wondered, would she be using the top of my head as a desk? I told her no and got to work. She was plenty occupied without her paperwork, though, She kept raising her head to look at that mirror, making sure there was not one sliver of glass showing.

"My fiancee is a lawyer," she told me cheerfully. "So I call him Satan, so, that's why, the tattoo, you know?" Well, wait a minute, what happened to the lesbian rugby player? But then I decided I really wanted to know was what kind of meds she was on, how much, and if the rubber room was comfy.

She kept putting her hands up, and, of course, right in my way, to fix the tape. The green soap, water and Vaseline were making a mess of her 'pasties'. After about the third or fouth time, I was ready to pin her down by the neck with one hand, and with the other, yank off the tape and tell her to fucking deal with it.  I just told myself to suck it up and get it done. When I had finally finished, I was simultaneously relieved, and yet miserable that I still had another to do.

She was so excited, she was going on and on about how much she loved it. Her joy immediately turned to a fit when she saw there were streaks of purple from the stencil on the white trim of her swimsuit. She had insisted on pulling it up over the stencil to see if the suit would hide the tattoo. That would be a pretty freakin' scandalous suit if it didn't cover a tattoo less than a half inch above her nipples, but I obliged. So she's carrying on and on about the suit being a hundred dollars and it was her favorite suit, I finally grabbed the bottle of green soap, gave the spot a squirt and told her to go home and wash the thing in cold water. And soak your head while you're at it, I thought.

So we got started on "God's wife". She kept wanting it lower, lower, lower, until she had the crack of her ass dividing the two words. Then she wanted them moved closer together. She began to go on and on about church, telling me solemnly that she was "a very religious person." Right, because devout folk get "Satan's Bitch" tattooed on their tits, and the name of God in their ass crack. I must have missed that part of Catholic school when I was a kid.

So, the second part went by fairly uneventfully, except for her repeatedly telling me, "No one else can get this tattoo! If anyone else asks for it, say no, even if they really want it!" I wearily told her that I didn't think she needed to worry about that. Then she went on to talk about meeting her finacee at this hospital she works at, they were working together. Hm! A lawyer who has a second job...in a hospital...maybe he just loves helping people!

We finished and she was all smiles, telling me I was so awesome, blah, blah, I was so relieved it was over. "I gotta give you my number! We should totally hang out!" Oh, yes! Me and Satan's Bitch, pals for life! I can't wait to meet the fiancee, I'm sure he must be a stalwart chap, if he could wrest the wife of God from the kingdom of heaven! Or Hell? Oh, for Pete's sake....

She scrawled her number on a piece of paper. "Now, if anyone else wants this tattoo, you call me!" She said sternly. "Because my friends are gonna see this and want it too." Wow. That's gotta be some bunch, if they actually even exist outside of her psychoses.

She left and I wearily cleaned up the aftermath, tearing down the paper towel fortress. An hour later, the phone on the wall rang, guess who.

"I wanna add a word to this," she said breathlessly," I just thought of something hilarious!" Oh, I could hardly wait.

"What do you want to add?" I asked warily.

"Just two letters, in the middle of the one on my chest."

"What letters?" I asked again, with a definite edge to my voice.

"My." She said triumphantly. Satan's MY Bitch. I weakly told her I was booked up for the rest of the night. Total bullshit, but I simply could not deal with all that again, not for two letters. She assured me she'd be back, and she'd send me lots of business, she's in California all the time, and had lots of friends there who want tattoos. Apparently, California is completely devoid of tattoo shops now? I was unaware of this development.

So, there it is, the craziest person I have ever tattooed. I get a new winner every now and then, but this one will be nearly impossible to top. In fact, if anyone does manage to top that, I think I will be forced to retire immediately, as I will be the one who's finding out if the rubber room is comfy.   

The Dumbest Questions I've Ever Been Asked, Vol. 1

I can assure you, this will be one in a long series of installments.

Now, granted, I know that people who haven't had a tattoo or piercing before are apt to be nervous, and perhaps ask a lot of questions about the process. I do my best to walk them through the whole thing so they know what's going to happen, and what they can expect. But really, some of the questions I get...I don't know if they're borne of total panic, or abject stupidity. Allow me to elaborate...

SHE: "So, is this, like, actually going to penetrate my skin?" Now, I was under the assumption that we all know by now that tattoos are done with needles and they last forever. So, I would also assume that one knows that those needles do actually penetrate the skin, and that is how the tattoo gets in there, and stays there. Unless, of couse there are still some out there that figure we use magic paintbrushes and permanent paint that will stay on until death and beyond.

HE: "So, if I wash this tomorrow, it's not gonna come off, right?" See the above, Sparky.

EVERYONE: "Is this gonna hurt?" Again, see question one. Not that getting a tattoo is the worst thing that can happen to you, but it's not entirely pleasant, either. Unless, of course, you are a huge masochist, in which case it will be an orgasmic delight. But for the other 99% of us, yeah, it hurts.

LOTS OF PEOPLE: "Where should I put it?" And they don't mean 'an inch higher or lower?' They mean, 'On my arm, leg, back, or what?' People, please. Don't ask me to tell you where to put it, because the conversation always goes this way: THEY:"Where should I put it?"  ME:"I'd say right on your forearm." THEY:"Well, I have to hide it for work." ME:"Well, put it up here, on your bicep, a short sleeve will still cover it."  THEY:"Yeah, but...I really don't want anyone to see it, it's just for me. How about on my back?"  ME:(sighing)"Well, if it's just for you, why are you putting it in a spot where you can't see it?  THEY:(no longer even paying attention to me)"Well, if it's on my back, and I go to the beach, people might still see it..." ME:(inside my head)"If you're so fucking embarassed to have a tattoo, why are you even getting one?"

Here's a great one from the other night; A couple came in a few weeks ago, I tattooed her, and they came back two nights ago for his turn. She was fretting and fussing over him as if I were about to perform open-heart surgery on him. Then she turned to me and asked in the most mewly, whiny, scared-mom voice ever, "Is it going to hurt him more than it hurt me?" ...Now, give me a few minutes to wrap my head around that one....How in the Sam Hill am I supposed to answer that? It's all subjective! Yours was behind your ear, his is on the arm. So you're not even talking about the same spot. Now, yours was a teeny star and his is a big tribal. So we're not even talking about the same timeframe. And you are you and he is him, and the two of you may have different pain thresholds entirely. And the only way I could possibly know who is in more pain is to actually inhabit your bodies while you're getting the tattoos (so who would be in mine, I wonder?) and then later compare the two. Now, I'm pretty awesome, but I'm not that awesome.

Here's a little gem that's not actually related to getting a tattoo: SHE: (calling the shop on the phone) "What are your hours?"  ME: "From blah 'til blah, seven days a week". SHE: "Even on Sundays?"  Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but there are only seven days in a week. So if I said seven days a week, that would include Sunday, correct? And, I believe, of those seven days, we all know that one of them is, in fact, named "Sunday", correct? And I have been asked that question over the phone more than once. Scary.

I could go on and on, but that might make this the longest blog in history and I don't want to type myself to death tonight. I'll save the rest for later days. The only thing that bothers me is, as fast as I can write about the old ones, I get three or four new ones. This could take a while.