"The grand prize is (drum roll); hassles, nonsense, arguments, a possible early death, and anonymous life punctuated by some artistic pleasure. If you're lucky."

What a great life, yeah? You bet it is, and I would trade it for nothing. Meaning if I could, I dunno, teach history in college, like I wanted to before I found out that anything past a needle grouping is beyond my math skills, I would.

I love it, don't get me wrong. My station in life is what it should be. A, so far, known, and so-so to OK tattoo guy.

Do I deserve this place in time, space, and perhaps history? Sure. Was I selected by the ghost of Phil Sparrow to do so?

Hell no!

You know what I'm entitled to? This blog, which no one reads (Hint. HINT! A hem...) and that, my few readers (A HEM...!) is about it.

I'm glad that are people out there though, who expect to be lauded, for whatever reason. "I've payed my fuckin' dues. I'm deserve..."

To shut up. So sorry that your road to tattooing sucked. As to being the best, biggest, baddest... please, just stop.

My theory comes from the Bogart version of the Maltese Falcon: "The cheaper the thug, the gaudier the patter."

"Cheap? My shop grosses..."

No, not cheap like that.

Cheap like, "Do we really need..."

Yes. WE do.

I was one once.

What ever "one" was/is.