Gloomy Inks

I learned something here too! I don`t have too much to add really. I. honestly think that certain symbols, swastikas being ine, only truly look good on someone`s back side. Speaking of Masons though, Stoney St Clair, Sailor Jerry, Milton Zeis, Apache Harry, all Masons. Sent from my SCH-S968C using Tapatalk

That`s true. Prespective would change. But even with that, people flail in odd directions. A new born might turn the hard gangster to jelly, or make someone who`s very relaxed into an uptight, maybe even callous soul. No accounting for how people will be. Sent from my SCH-S968C using Tapatalk

I know a guy, a friend, who`s parents would kill him if they found out about his tattoos. He has his torso covered, right up to.the shoulders, with nothing on his arms. I call it his "tank top". Sent from my SCH-S968C using Tapatalk

I have a really frequent client, female, who comes in and goes, "So. I want a cutie mark." I looked at her and all that could go through my mind was, "You can`t say that in a tattoo shop..." It hurt my mind. Sent from my SCH-S968C using Tapatalk

My drummer`s mom was there? Sent from my SCH-S968C using Tapatalk

I had a similar thing happen with the tiger on my left shoulder. Fell asleep on the couch and my a&D bonded like glue with the damn thing. When I went to roll over it felt like I got the tattoo all over again, only all at once. Needless to say I needed a touch up. Sent from my SCH-S968C using Tapatalk

Someone should retitle the thread! Sent from my SCH-S968C using Tapatalk

My upper lower inner arm.bruises pretty bad. I read that, and even I have tough time following it. Sent from my SCH-S968C using Tapatalk

This is a pretty good thread. Lot of thought here. I guess the wipe would irritate more, and of course the factors of what kind of machines you might be running, the skill level of the artist (and by that I don`t mean how she/he can draw. I mean the art of applying a colored wound) and where your mind is too. Maybe that`s really it. Where is your head at? Sent from my SCH-S968C using Tapatalk

Im starting to think Im a real wuss. I did my thighs myself and it not only hurt, it made me a little sick feelin`. You`re right though. Upper arms don`t hurt much. Sent from my SCH-S968C using Tapatalk

My wife said the same thing. Didn`t hurt her at all. Sent from my SCH-S968C using Tapatalk

For me, outside of the forearms. It either doesn`t hurt, or Im skin dead. Sent from my SCH-S968C using Tapatalk

One thing I try not to do is argue. I base what I will and won`t do on a few factors. Mainly how much of done it and how much it bugs me to. But I respect your position, Margarita. I have never been an artist. Im a tattoo artist. A bum, but the high end of bum. Sent from my SCH-S968C using Tapatalk

That`s true, but its oft the client. Bad after care. I remember reading a Zeke Owens column about Sailor Jerry and aftercar. The Old Man was of a mind that he gave good tattoos. But once the guy got out the doir he "bath in salt water ir gasoline". Cant make people try! But that pony was brand new, and I just hope the poor, palsey ridden artist had health insurance Sent from my SCH-S968C using Tapatalk

Magarita, you`re right. I once saw a My Little pony done single needle, about the size of a dime. It looked like Shakey Jake got a hold of who ever was dumb enough to get it. The lines.... my god!!! Sent from my SCH-S968C using Tapatalk

Yes, that to. ;) Sent from my SCH-S968C using Tapatalk

You got it! Sent from my SCH-S968C using Tapatalk

Anything ICP related. And death dates. Sent from my SCH-S968C using Tapatalk

Two assembled nickel plated Dietel machines. Putting them on here to purchase a coil winder. Made the myself and selling them both for $275. $150 ea, so for a bargain get both. One is a liner, BSA coils, Ringmaster springs, aged brass binding posts, and Sterling silver contact screw. Hits like an SOB. The other is a shader, blackened steel binding posts, Sterling contact screw, Ringmaster coils and will purr for you. I assembled these myself, made quite sure the were on the money. If interested in one or both, or just want to see a few pics email me: [email protected] Thanks for reading. Sent from my SCH-S968C using Tapatalk

So, made three machines. Two Dietzel irons, liner and shader, which will either be headed to the UK, or sold to the highest bidder here. Also I figured "what the Hell? I love dangerous chemicals", so I aged an old brass frame of more than slightly dubious origin, making what I like to call ny Dirty Old Salt finish. All have silver contact screws and are nickel plated, then rubbed down in a sealing waxm except for the new/old brass. Prices are very reasonable too. Starting at $200, and far more classy than many I`ve seen. In my opinion anyway. So take a ganders, goose! Or ganders... Geese? Oh no. I`m all confused.

“Hey Grady,” Cap’n Sven, who also happened to have a phone, “You know that big gorilla? What’s his name? The guy from St. Louis.” Grady was eating an egg salad sandwich and took a huge bite, savoring the taste. Goddamn, he thought to himself, she sure can make an egg salad. It was a balmy day, getting ready to go into summer season. It was a time full of promise for every vendor, talker, attraction and tattoo artist alike. For the cold gray winter in the city would lift its icy grip and the sun would shine forth once again. Grady was happy for it too, and had closed his winter quarters on the Island, and come out to Sand Street to get some sun, see some pretty girls and give these Brooklyn tattooers a run for their money. Grady made a nervous face and glanced out the glass. It was ten in the morning, and Grady had no there yet. “So, what does this fella want?” It was Sven’s turn to make a face. He did, and stuck a wad of chewing tobacco into his cheek, “Said you were going to sell to him, or he was going to kill you.” “I think you should sell,” Sven added and he believed it too. “Naw…,” Grady’s mind ran like a top and he was already almost there with it. He knew he didn’t have much time. He asked a leading question, “You like me, Cap’n? “ “I do,” And Sven meant that too. “You should come down here and start a fight with me, but you gotta lose,” Grady was smiling, “Bring the shine boy too, I reckon.” Conrad Miller was 250 pounds, tattooed everywhere but his face, neck and hands. His reputation in St. Louis was one of ruthlessness. He was a violent man, a dangerous man, but only with guns. He was bully, and had found his way to the Rats. He loved intimidation, which is why he they were so eager to get him. He was lousy the work. He’d been taught, brought through it kicking and screaming the right way by State Street Stan, and even he couldn’t teach this “rube” the ropes. “I fear for the next generation of saps getting tattooed,” He shook his head, “They may as well go to a butcher.” Butcher he was too. It wasn’t that killed so many people, nor that he liked waving the gun around. How he killed people was grisly. He like guns and knives, but what he liked to do was play “One man boxing match” and he would wear heavy leather workman’s gloves with knuckles on the outside. Or he would break bones working his way up to a lead pipe or bat to the head. He stomped down the block Eddie Williams and Ed Lang. He smoked fast, readying himself to shoot this white trash Tennessee yokel in the head to make his point. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. In fact, Conrad didn’t want to tattoo. He knew he was awful. There was no two ways about it. He liked the money, the women, and life of it more then he liked killing. Not by much though. “You think I’ll have to kill him?” Conrad pronounced kill, keel. Eddie Williams looked at the hulking brute as he walked to his left. He knew Miller was dumb and his trip to New York he knew, he just knew, was going to be ruined by him. Now here they were, off on some goddamn tangent, some idea that Connie hadn’t thought through. “I don’t know,” Eddie Williams said, “You know this might go better back home.” “S’All the same!” Con said, “Fuck these guys. We’ll take their money too!” Eddie rolled his eyes. Tall, dapper, the genial bank and mail truck robber wasn’t paying much attention to Con or Lang. He swiveled his head looking at the ladies as he passed He was a tattooer too, and now he was nervous. He’d known Grady from the road, and didn’t want to lead on. The last thing Grady needed was Connie trying to get Eddie to convince Grady to sell. Eddie know you couldn’t convince the man of anything. His only option as he saw it was to put an elaborate act, feigning fear at the site of the man. On the other side of Connie Lang was just as steamed. All he had wanted to was to go to the beach, something he had never done before. He was all ready to go when Connie, half drunk at 9AM rousted Eddie and him for this screwball venture. Grady and Sven sat in the shop, quietly eyeing each other. “This is dumb,” Sven said in his Swede accent, “You’re going to hurt me bad.” I’m just going to rough you up. Now take this,” Eddie handed Sven a condom, filled with a dark red ink. “Just pop this rubber after I pull a punch,” Sven made a face at that. “What?” Grady said exasperated, “You want me to kill ya?” He shrugged. “I just don’t want to get hurt is all,” Grady slapped him on the arm, “Aw Sven, It’ll be alright.” It was then that Grady, keyed up to near war time survival mode that the shoe shine boy came in, “They’re coming!” And like a shot the kid was out of the shop, across the street and in to the alley behind a few garbage cans. Connie threw open the door of the shop a moment later and Grady, not having enough time to say anything, hit Sven hard in the face. Sven hadn’t the time to get the prophylactic up to his nose, but at least he turned his head fast enough to avoid his nose being broken. Grady’s fist crashed into Sven’s left eye socket. It imeadatly began to swell. Sven and Grady turned to look at the gangsters. Grady began to reach into the back of his pants. “Sons of bitches! I know why you come here. No one is taking my shop. If you want it,” Grady pulled an ACP from his belt, “I swear you’ll clean my blood up before you reopen. Hey Rube!” Eddie Williams stood there, knowing Grady had noticed him by the last part of that statement, which had gone right past Connie. Williams dug under his arm. “Fucking asshole!” Sven yelled and stumbled out the door holding his face. The shoe shine boy came out of the alley and helped the now wounded, swearing artist back to his shop. Grady leveled the gun at the three. “Now come on boys, what’s gonna be?” Connie looked nervously right and left. “Don’t look over her, honey,” Lang said to him. Eddie agreed, “You got that right. I told you REAL tattooers were hard.” “Godddamn right!” Grady shouted, pulling back the hammer and giving Eddie a look that almost cost them the whole game. Lang was happy because at this point it was early enough in the day to get to Brighton Beach and his suit was in the car back at the hotel. Connie stood, shuffling his feet for what seemed like an eternity. “Alright!” Grady shouted, bringing the dumb hood out of his natural stupor for a moment, “You better get it out of here NOW. GIT YER ASSES OUT OF MY SHOP!” Grady fired a .45 caliber slug into the ceiling and that was enough for the three Midwest criminals scattering for the door. As they hit the street, Eddie began to laugh. “What in the fuck are you laughing at?” Connie asked. Williams shrugged, “We made it out alive. I thought we were going to get shot full of holes.” Connie was seething as they walked down the block. “Goddamn city, who needs it?” “A men,” Lang said and after a moment said, “So you boys want to go to the beach?” “Yeah! Girls,” He nudged Connie, “Whatcha say Connie? Ladies?” “Eh,” Con grumbled and they began to walk away from the shop. Grady sat down in his chair and took a long breath. He put his head in his hands and began to shake. Shaking with laughter. He hopped up, and ran to the front of the shop, he leaned out the door a watched the already far away men disappear. With that over, he got on the phone. Sven had a steak on his eye, and was bemoaning the situation to the barber he worked with. Hearing the phone ring he got up and answered. Grady was on the other end. “Ah, the smartest man in the city. What the fuck was that all about? My fuckin’ face is huge! I thought you had a plan?” Grady was quiet. “I did!” He got loud, “It just changed and I didn’t have time to tell you.” “You’re a lousy bum,” Sven said quietly. “Well Hell! Everyone knows that,” The carny was always one to make fun of himself.” “Guess I owe you now?” Grady asked? “Bet your ass you do,” Sven groaned, “My eye is as big as my head.” “Does it look better?” Grady asked. Sven, to spite how angry he was and the now swollen ocular, began to laugh. “Rotten bastard…” He said. “I know it,” Grady said, “Figure I owe you a few drinks, OK?” “OK,” Sven said. The bell on the door jingled and Grady saw a very attractive female step into the shop. “I gotta trim the sails, good bye Sven.” Grady hung up the phone. Turning he saw a young woman, the one that had made the egg salad. “Can I help you, miss?” He asked with the best he could muster. “Maybe,” she said smiling, “I brought another sandwich.” Grady was sure he would enjoy the rest of the summer there.

My car having taken a dump I have been paying a close friend/client to drive me around until I find a ride that suits my coolness. There are quite a few options, but sadly the 1943 Willies Jeep was off the table, as was the Fat Boy. Trying to score some normal guy points with the lady took her out for Mexican. By cab no less! Romantic! Really! Back when I was younger there were only a few Mexican places around, and all were Tex-Mex. I have no problem with that as my old bassist’s family always does a big Tex-Mex spread May 5th, but after I had the real stuff I was hooked. For those of you with real Mexican restaurants please excuse the gush. The family that runs the joint is from Michoacán, one of the more dangerous places down there at the moment. I haven’t spent too much time down there, but I’ve been there enough times to tell that this place was going to be legit. As it was. Of course I get a beer and half way through I have me an anxiety attack. I try not freak out too bad. I was smart enough to get to the hospital when I first had them, so I know what they are, and what I can do to limit the things. Hate them though, really panicky, racing thoughts, the whole nine. She knows I have them and that I’m trying my best to still play the tough guy, so she gives me a look and I get up to walk outside. For any of you who have these things, the great outdoors helps. Not me though. No, nicotine helps me, so I wander out and light up a smoke. I sit down on bench and lean my head back, late afternoon sun (Yes, I took her to an Early Bird) on my skin. I take a deep breath, and think about something calming. Soft shading. Old jazz. Atomic weapons. The Middle East. And hear this puttering noise. It’s a smaller sound than I VW Bug, so I look up and there is this little cart. It was like a golf cart I would have, nothing frilly about it. Real engine too. Behind the wheel a guy in his early 50s and at shotgun, his lady. I’m looking at the thing and he says, “Hey man” and asks me if I like it. “I do, what is it?” I ask and he raises his left arm, and points exposing a vivid Chinese dragon, green, yellow, great color blending. Just a bit of orange to make it pop out, very refined old school. Suffice to say I still don’t know what that vehicle is. I missed the whole thing. “Who did that dragon?” The guy nods to me, “That’s ancient.” “I dig it man. Who did it?” He was either messing with me, or he had no clue about the proliferation of tattoo and tattoo related things that are around him every day. Either way he could see I was interested, and who do people like to talk about more than themselves? “I got it done in Ohio. Some guy named Lyle Tuttle.” “Tuttle is a big name,” I said. “Yeah?” The guy said. “Sure is,” I shook his hand, “thanks for talking to me. I always say something when I see a good one.” He walked back inside. I followed, rejoined my lady and finished dinner. Pays to ask, you know? I’ve run into people with crazy stories. Some of them I’m sure are BS, and others I’m sure are not. I talked to an old cat who swore up and down that ABC Hank and Danny Danzl had down his ink in Seattle. One guy told me that Frenchy did his two in Denver. Another old cat told me he went to Wagner, “The best.” I also had a paranoid schizophrenic named Mike tell me Doc Webb had it in for him. “Webb has been dead since 1986,” I said, trying to find an out. “Doesn’t matter,” Mike said in a voice so serious it makes me wonder, “He still after me.” So you can get some strange answers too. What's more creepy than the malevolent, disembodied spirit of Doc Webb? I'll tell you. I checked my bill at the Mexican place. Great deal for the money, but they charge you for after dinner mints! 10 Cents a piece for mints.

My goodness! I wrote THIS? My head hurts... (fumbles around for a bottle of Anacin). I'm never doing this again. I feel sick... so, so sick... (runs to bathroom)

In the past month I’ve paid for two extracted wisdom teeth, a pound of hamburger that went bad, a pound of chicken, set a date for my wedding, got punched in the face by my crazy dad, so I decided to get drunk and write this. I’m on drink two. If you’re going to write while you’re blasted, don’t start out sober. Now that’s stupid. If you’re smart have one or two then get going. Reason being is you need to have some focus. One thing I learned in high school when I thought that some sort of latter day Lester Bangs swilling cough syrup and charging forth on term papers and book reports was cool. Well it wasn’t, and being the teen aged drunk I turned to… what was in the house. Scotch, Dewar’s, fine stuff now, but to my weak, un liquor trained body it was awful, so I mixed it with sour. I’m on drink three now. Tell you another thing while I’m at it. You think to yourself, “Oh the guy playing music up there is drunk, but I’ll be damned if he isn’t playing killer!” It’s called practice. Yes, band’s practice, but it’s important to know your limits, which is what practice is for. I know now that any form of liquor and Gator Aid is recipe for disaster. The booze/sugar/sugar/electrolytes and whatever the Hell else they put in there will kill you almost. Or that if you funnel 32 beers, you’re gonna pass out, but then you gotta walk home. Or that if someone says,” I got some ___________. Who wants some?” You say no. Drink four, keep ‘em coming. I tell you what I DON’T like to do when I’m drunk. I hate tattooing. I detest it. I’ve done it once, no, not again. Not that it isn’t fun to tattoo. But I get bored, I want another beer. I want a smoke. I want to walk around. I want to eat the worm. I want to wake up naked in the back yard with one shoe on and no sock, and one sock on and no shoe. And the dog was licking me. Is. Drink 5, you know what I like about you? I’ll tell you. You’re reading this, that’s why. One day, maybe when I’m dead and gone and in Potter’s Field in the damned Bronx with Charlie Wagner (And I’d bet my life Apache Harry) some of you might even get a giggle out of it. Or a titter. Can you say titter here? Titter. Drink six You think you’re better than me, don’t you? With all your fancy art school training? You’re not my dad! I don’t have to take this. Ernie! Gimmie another drink, and a Shirley Temple for these… this… (Sobbing) I’m sorry. I love you guys. If I had a nickel for every time I said it… Let me share a cab with you home. Can you pick up the fare? (All correct spelling and grammar brought to you through the power of MS Office.- ED) (not Horton)

You know, I dunno if I get it either. I wrote it too, but it was one of those "I can't sleep, it's four AM... let's see if I can inflict a few lines" sort of things