All this body art brilliance is prone to turn a poor country boy's head, and as it turns out, mine too. It had been a long time since my last encounter with the needle gun and the heady mix of 90 degree heat, 90% humidity, bourbon on rocks and a pocket full of Greenbacks was making me just darn crazy enough to go back there.
But why in the name of the mothers who boure us into this world, all wrinkly and unblemished, would anyone get tattooed? There are many reasons: Fashion - to look 'cool' has to rate as the favourite. Nothing wrong with looking cool as long as you do. Beauty - different from fashion, more likely to be in the eye of the beholder, and more likely to result in an original design. Toughness - yeah there are those who tattoo at least partly to show that they are not afraid to be outside of the norm to shun social conventions and to be marked their whole lives - ooo so tough. Self-harm - the thrill believe it or not, of marking yourself irrevocably, of allowing someone, and indeed watching someone mark you irrevocably floats some boats - I hear.
So on the third week of my stay in New York City for a range of reasons not wholely unrelated to those you have just read I got another tattoo (sorry Mum).
The first one I had has always been a bit shit. I knew that when I first got it, but what can you do? I never hated it, it was just a bit, well rubbish. Poor rendering of a reasonable idea. A small tree sprouting from the barren landscape of my right upper arm (deltoid for you anatomy freaks)that always looked a bit lost. Now, 17 years later, the exposure to quality tattage confirmed a long held belief that I needed to cover it up, but to keep true to my original idea the cover up was going to be in the shape of another tree, a bigger tree, a much bigger tree.
A tattoo is not something to be stingy about. When your purchase is for life, think quality not value. With this in mind I chose the most expensive looking tattoo studio I could find and pressed the buzzer. 'Invisible' is an apointment only studio but there was a slot free that night and in no time I was back, vague design in mind $500 in my pocket.
Kiku my tattoo artist was a heavily tattooed (no surprise there) Japanese hipster of indeterminate age and an interest in Zombie movies. He too had an idea for a design and proceded to sketch it out on my arm. Here's the first factoid about fancy tattoo artists you no-body-art-weirdos should know, they care more about their art than your preferences. Kiku listened politely to my ideas about what should be INDELIBLY PUNCTURED INTO MY FLESH, then dismissed them. Only through a force of will rarely witnessed outside of a Shoalin temple did I manage to get him to agree to my broad design ideas. Finally we were ready to start, needle poised Kiku asked "shall we do this?", "Let's f**k this puppy" I replied, he didn't laugh.
Being tattooed has a well deserved reputation as being painful. Its not a huge pain, more a winching stingy sensation ranking somewhere between stubbing a toe and a light scalding on the ouchometer, or more acurately like being pricked thousands of times by a tiny needle for hours on end. The good news is you kinda get used to it.
It took three visits for my (our) tree to be completed, in total five and a half hours and nearly $1000. An aside - I was recently in a beer garden with my much younger half-brothers and sisters. Theo who is 15 asked my sister's friend to show him the tattoo on his right arm 'Oh, that's shit!' my brother announced. 'Theo,' I said, 'you can't tell someone their tattoo is shit, it's not like he can return it now can he?'. Putting aside the fact that Theo was right, I stand by my point so those of you who feel my new bit of me is rubbish - keep it to yourself okay? On the other hand if you think its the bees bollocks don't be shy let me know!. Am I happy with it? Well, I better get used it.
1 comment:
Andrew and I vote for 'bees bollocks' :)
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