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Friday, May. 31, 2002 / 9:11 p.m. ~Ink Me, Baby! - More About the Convention Than the Previous Entry~ Well hell. Or well, hell. Maybe, well HELL! Now that I've seen that Tattoobelly has linked to me and all, I feel responsible for writing a better entry than the previous one (see "previous" link at bottom of this entry), which was kind of weird because I wrote it right after reading Jon's email and responding to him, and thinking about him, etc., etc., and I was more wasted than I am now. Seeing as how I finally finished eating my salty wrong food. Salty and wrong. But minorly nutritious, so I've eaten. I'm a little better. And Detroit got 6 goals against Colorado in their first 16 shots and how fucking insane is that?! Why watch the third period at all?! The Convention. Wow. Maybe I still can't find the right words, to write anything. I was on time. Noon. I was ready. No one else seemed to be. I think they were all out drinking last night. No, I know most of them were. So I wandered. I looked at "books", portfolios that is. I tried to engage some artists in conversation. One woman would not stop fucking with her booth's setup procedures, i.e. hanging her stupid tshirts for sale at just the right level, long enough to talk seriously with me about the design I wanted. And she refused to alter the calligraphy at all, was afraid to mess it up, fuck with the juju or whatever. I don't think she even knew what it was. What it meant. So easy to walk away. Find someone else. So there was someone else, before I met "She" (read previous entry, you know, the link is at the bottom of this entry, try scrolling, it's easy), a "He", and he is good. I liked his book. He looked me in the eye, responded when I spoke. Hey, that's all I ask, a little rapport with the person who is going to physically alter my countenance, my visage, you dig? He's nice. He apprenticed with Tony. He's cool. And there, in his book, a sticker, a design made into a sticker, not a real design, something just decorating his book, something the girl who pre-registered me at the shop last weekend did herself, but HEY! I like it! Can I have it? Will you DO it? To me? ON me? He will indeed. But he had a six hour thing coming up. A guy with six hours worth of work to do on his arm. I was going to come after. Shit. After..... well, after was when I was after, when I was through, when I'd just got done. I was so fucking wasted, from no food, from excitement, from getting tattooed, I had to leave. I suddenly hope he's okay with that. It just occurs to me that he was going to be better after he'd been working already. Did I fuck that up? Am I swearing too much? So, he's going to do this really cool lizard on my arm tomorrow. I know, I know, ANOTHER FUCKING LIZARD?! What? Um, well, I know, but so what? It's okay, right? I mean, he likes it, he likes the idea, he's cool, he's an artist. He's going to have it ready tomorrow first thing, um, noonish first thing. People with tattoos. So many young handsome men with tattoos. Oh wow. Or omigod. Or, holy moly. Skin. Everywhere. Look at THAT! And that! Wow. She's got a what? What the hell is that? Look at THAT guy, his face is covered with these blue dot things. And it looks good actually. At the end of the day, when I was wasted and had to leave, had to walk away from Mike, "Mike" who'd attached himself to me. "Mike" from South Carolina. A seemingly nice guy. We talked when no one else seemed to want to talk to me. I needed to interact. I was desperate not to be alone there. But I needed to get away from him. And at that moment, me pulling away, there was a sudden preponderence, a sudden plethora, a sudden non-stop parade of beautiful men with the coolest tattoos. Eye candy. "Fuck me now" men, everywhere. Eye contact galore. Me poking at arms, "Wow, that's awesome!" The one with Paul, George and John going down his arm. Photorealistic. Looked like tracings, not tattoos. Are those real? "Those are AMAZING!", "Oh, yeah, thanks, thanks very much, so and so did them, you know, at so and so shop, used to be so and so, and now it's blah blah, blah", and I'm not even listening because I can't believe how good these things look, and how amazing the color of his skin is, and how muscular he is, but not overbuilt, and man, how old is this guy, and could we have sex please? Oh, right, it looks like I'm "with" Mike all of a sudden, doesn't it? And I'm finding people are friendlier to me when it looks like I'm with a man. What is that about? Tomorrow I go back. Noonish, as I said. And I get a lizard on my other arm, the other one, not the one with the...... lizard on it. Oh no, the other arm, the one currently without a lizard on it. Am I making a huge mistake? I kind of wanted a snake, but when I saw this design, I had to have it. It grabbed me, reached up, out of the book, took me and pulled me closer, HEY, YOU KNOW YOU WANT ME ON THE OTHER ARM, YOU KNOW, THE ONE without A LIZARD ON IT! Um, okay, sheesh, let go. Okay. I'll do it. I've lost all sense. All rhyme. All reason. And why not? Suddenly I want full sleeves. I want a whole body tattoo, I want my back covered, and my neck and my feet. The girl next to me in the booth belonging to "She" was getting her feet touched up. By the girl who was renting half of the booth belonging to "She", and they're both women, not girls, but they were just so young and pretty, and girlish. And those feet. Wow! Beautiful. And this delicate design all around her belly, this wild piece of jewelry in her navel, just crap, but good crap!, all over her body, all tan, and this black and gray, almost Mindi style stuff. Or Henna style, but in black and gray, and I don't even know. Because she knew how amazing she looked. She was all about how she looked. Not me. I didn't fit in at all. Oh, trust me on that. Trust me. Just an accent here and there. Just an old armband, an old dragon on my back. Now this Tibetan Buddhist Mantra on my ankle. Auuuuummmmmmmmm. Tomorrow. I'll be better tomorrow. I want more tattoos than I can afford presently. I found that I wanted to be tattooed continuously. I found I love the way it feels. I told "She" over and over, "It doesn't hurt, everyone thinks it hurts, but it doesn't hurt at all, I like the way it feels, am I crazy?, because I like it, I'm not kidding. Don't stop. I could sit here all day and have you tattoo me. Is there anything else you want to put on me? Anything you want to tattoo?", and "She", trying to appease me, trying to make money, said, "Whatever you want." It hurt later. Briefly. I joked, "OW! It HURTS!", than laughed. Now I don't feel a thing. I can't wait to take off the bandage tomorrow and look, and look, and look. And get more ink. And then I'm out of money. Then I've spent more than too much. Then I look at my checking account, then I pay my rent and see what's left, and then I panic. Then I say, "Holy fuck me to tears, was that a good thing?" But I know exactly how much I have, and how much I spent, and I am kidding. All is well. If this were years ago, when I had money, I'd get tattooed all over. I think. I sincerely love the sensation. And it wasn't erotic this time, not at all, not like the guy two booths down who was incredibly beautiful, full sleeves, those big discs in his ears, you know, like the African tribespeople, and South American tribespeople wear, it's all the rage, and he was tattooing on a young woman's chest, her upper chest, above her tube top, and he carefully, gently cleaned her chest first, then placed the stencilled design there, as she stood so still, chin up, posture perfect. And he had to touch her, over and over, and I wanted to be her, beautiful like her, being touched by him. I'm rethinking all of this. I've crossed the line, already. I've got more ink now than I ever thought I would have, and now I wear sleeveless shirts in public and I'm not afraid of looks I'll get, stares, and I won't care who sees my lizards, or asks Why?, or Didn't it HURT? I'm committed now and I only want more... Cost of the War in Iraq
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