Gloomy Inks

It never ceases to amaze me what people have to get into to fess up. When the phrase “the truth will set you free” comes more from the mouth of a torturer than the sage, people clam up. No this isn’t an introduction to my new tell all “How to Tattoo in 10 Easy Steps, With Pictures, and Sweep up the Place”. What I was getting at was this; in an odd way, the anonymity of this whole internet thing has made this blog a sort of confessional. I say things on this blog that would never say to a client. I’ve probably said a few things that I wouldn’t say to my mom. I’m almost 35. Half way to 40. Call it a half assed milestone. These days I think I’m playing my cards close enough to the vest where I don’t have to be a crabby asshole. Far from being the big shit, the BEST, I’ve realized that the rat race is for the birds. The BEST, as said by other artists vs. the people inked, is either way subjective. It’s sort of like watching the linesmen in a Sunday football pointing and telling the ref who has the ball. Like anyone would listen to a guy who eats a pizza before every game and his every third sentence starts with, “Coach says…” (For the record, I played right guard in high school before finding out I had asthma, and promptly gave it up for the dusty, oft weird trail that led me to these here irons) At least those linesmen call it like they see it, and I’m sure you get more honesty from them then from a guy or gal who charges less since you didn’t want green in it. I wasn’t in town for ________________________ (put your December holiday here, & I’ll avoid the ACLU, thank you very much) so my end of the year was spent driving to see my Mom, who left my Dad before Thanksgiving. Abuse. 37 years of it. I’m glad that storm has subsided. I weathered it too. We drove up to I-10 on 75, then north into Alabama, Mississippi, and to a small town a few hours from Memphis where my mom is from. A little place, pretty well untouched by the 21st century, with the exception of the bypass, which destroyed the commerce of the old Court Square, and a little street shop with Harleys outside. The history, civil war, civil rights, the old cars, bbq, fireworks; I shook off the sunshine state crap and began to see things differently. I relaxed, saw rivers (including Tombigbee! Say it out loud, go on. It’s fun) and talked to people who were friendly enough to take the time to talk. I even sang along with the Meat Puppets on the mp3 player. I grew up in a tourist town. Right by the ocean no less. The place was in a constant state of flux, the motion making the heat all the more intense. Along with the fluidity of the tourist season there was also a chaos factor (a broken down minivan from Texas in the right lane, drunk tourists falling off of balconies at the time share)… and static. Like a lot of the people I know for a long time I was static too. For those who were from there, and I was one of the few born and bred that I can think of offhand, the feeling of being mired, bogged down, static, was terrible. Swallowed up by hidden quicksand in the dunes. And it’s completely full of BS, which goes without saying. It maybe coastal, but it’s just a small southern town. Cliquish. Pretentious. Awful. Truth is though (HEY! He made it back to his point!!! YAY! Chalk one up for continuity!), is I’m past it now. Not just the trip, but the places I’ve been since I took tattooing up full time, have changed me. I look on the former classmates who congregate at the bar and slap backs, telling stories of football games of yore, with a faint smile. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be stuck in the past that much. Walking backwards in flip flops is for morons. This year finds me better off, content, with a wonderful lady, and, if I were a religious guy, “thankfully” sober. Enough stuff to build heap big pile of machines too! It’s new though, that’s for sure. My family isn’t the same. I’m not the same. It’ll never be the same… It never is. It’s an illusion that it is, so I’m making the best of it. No resolutions, except I need more fireworks in my life. This was a bit of a ramble to read I guess, very sorry. I try to be funny and you can only yuck it up so much. You might bust a rib, or at least strain yourself. Sometimes, dear reader, introspection creeps in, even for a lunk like myself. “Introspection? About what, Gloomy?” You ask. Honestly? I’m not gonna tell you.

I'm with SStu. I figure most of the people out there are just like they were in say the 50s, just full of more BS. The level of artistic talent has sky rocketed of course, and people find there way to the people who are good. And then there are bums. It seems to me like there is almost a strata of person for the strata of artist. The Paul Rogers "pyramid" for both clients and artists. Lettering? I despise lettering that isn't pithy. Now if it's fun, that's a whole different colored horse. Once I put Hebrew script ("Thou shall not...," Ringing in my ears) on a Cuban woman who was Catholic and couldn't remember what the script meant. She had to get her friend to look it up on her phone to tell me. And then right at the end of the tattoo I got a big rip in my jeans. You can't expect people to have high taste. I dunno either, what about DeVita? You look at and go, "Holy crap that's good!" And it's missing part of the lining.

A few months back I got a tattoo for my Mom. Its a Bert Grimm Rose of No Man's Land. My mom is a saint, putting up with a ton shit her entire life, only to end up with a miscreant, tattooing son. Of course, I'm not the one with the half bottle of liquor induced brand on my arm with shitty blurry, blown out lines tattooed around it. I am the guy who did the brand and lame tattooing however. I was living in a band house, this squallid, non air conditioned place. Bad plumbing, bad roof, and the only thing holding it up was termite tunnels. The bathroom looked like Albania in 1968. The walls were covered in tar paper and spray painted along with most everything except for the drum kit. We'd had no loot, as bills were due, and more sad to say nothing of important, not a stem or seed of pot for two weeks. We were all just a little bit on edge. I had got the jones to tattoo way back, going as far as to donate some money to a few fly by nighters that I thought were good people, so's I could come up "the right way". You can teach a chimp to cut stencils and I got to work on pig. Badly. The only skill I think I ever really showed on the floor of that shop was dealing with people. I was not prepared for the relentless onslaut of a bassist from Kentucky wanting me to brand him. Don't ask me what motivated him to do it, or for me to resist for three years. I tell you one thing though, after a broke, dry two weeks, plopping down a bottle of Cuervo, a pack of unfiltered Camels, and a bag... you now have swayed me. "Yeah, fine," I muttered, "I'll fuckin' do it then." We built a fire. It was a few weeks after 9/11 and it rained for eight days after that non sense here, we were safe from the fire truck guys. The guy I was doing this DIY body mod on is a close friend, and impulsive as all getout. I noticed we didn't have an iron. "what are going to stick you with? DESIGN?" He pulls out a mauled coat hanger, "Its a ying yang." An hour later the fire is red hot embers and I put the iron in. We wait for another 30 minutes, the bassist clenches a towel in his teeth, wraps his arm around the plles for the clothes line and I took ten long steps. His teeth made audible snap, his face contorted, the skin blistered, singed and seared in the night air. "Ohmyfuckingfuckmybassistisgonabeatmydumbfacein!" I thought to myself. A cop lived next door, and he stepped out, the back door slamming when he realized it was just us. So the bassist is all jazzed, but the ying looks like a big, lop sided J, which was his first initial. So even that was OK. But here is the best part. We're wasted a few hours later. His ex walks out of the back of the house. We're pie eyed, fucked up, and she takes a few sniffs, "Why does it smell llike bacon in here?" Bolstered by this, smart me built a tattoo rig, out various household items, and wouldn't you know who wanted their brand LINED? So retard unsafe septic, this Jagger blew out a twisted mess of lines that this week I will finish untangling, after more than ten years. It stuns me I still have friends. And without Hep C too.

I've read a whole lot of tattoo history books. Talk about arcane, right? Its true and I've found a few good ones as well. First person accounts are always the best. Sure you can get more then a little BS in there. But you can BS anywhere. So, since you're reading my BS, I'll tell you about this here Wear Your Dreams, by some little fella named ED Hardy. Really though, all joking aside, between my normal chaos, my tatooing (which I been doing more of) & drawng I read this. Not only did I do that, but I did a digital download. (ooH. aaH.) My fiance was beaming, like mother watching her son try to stab his eye out with a spoon, "Oh Gus. You may make it to the 21st century one day." "Not likely," I muttered. So Hardy can weave a tale, and an interesting, fast paced one too. Besides the artsy (what do I know about lithography? Nothin'. But you never know...) and a few things left out that only I would have cared to read, I enjoyed the damned thing. Envisioning car seat covers and all, I found myself laughing . You might too. My sense of humor can be dark, so maybe not at the same things. Since we all know that Sparrow and Collins show up it was interesting to get an art school perspective on a few of the old timers. Painless Nel and Old Doc Webb are mentioned, along with a roll call, a host, a cavalcade of names. You got Doc, yer Zeke, yer Rollo, Shanghai Kate, Chuck Eldridge, a whole mess of criminals, weirdos, and Thom DeVita. Just like any tattoo bio, there are loves and hates, dislikes, and all sorts of madness. This was no different but it had pictures too! Some... in color. I'm on the fence, which is giving me terrible pain in my ass neck, as to if this book is the GREATEST TATTOO BIO OF ALL TIME, I can say that it was a fun read and the mention of Ray Pettibone warmed the cockels of this crazy old punk's heart. I also thought of Black Flag and Ed Hardy occupying the same space (not a place per se, but a "plane") and then my brain started hurting because I had no cigarettes or coffee. So yes, for the Zeke Owen stories alone, buy this book. Or steal it. I'd figure with all the shoes they won't miss one or two. I'M JOKING! DON'T STEAL. We must keep Mr. Hardy insweaters. Ug. These typos. This phone. Oy vey!

Back when I was first interested in doing tattoos I poked with a needle and india ink. But it wasn't quick enough. Silly me, I had already got a few and I needed a machine. In my case, the wanna be rock star, and the soon to be wannabe tattoo guy (read: cheap and dipshit) built a machine. Upgraded prison meat grinder and a fuckin' rotary. I did a few more than a few, before finding the weirdest shop to start off in. At least by my mind. Granted, I was no where near the above shirt in tallent/skill in a super septic environment, but I did change guitar strings and BIC pen tubes. My non BBP knowin' ass. Makes me wish I had pictures from back then, this thread does.

1. Painting. I really damn enjoy it! 2. People and their motivations for doing things. 3. How to spin plates. Not in a literal sense, but to focus on ten different things, and draw on people, and babble like I do... its a good skill to have. 4. Discression. Oh yeah, things the clients tell me stay with. DO THEY! And its the better part of valor. 5. Food. I can go for 18 hours without eating. Should I? Noooooooooo. and last... Stop and smell the roses. Or at least draw them.

With the posters, hooka smoke, rum, hair grease, bottles of wine and funny business that has engulfed the tattoo, as if a thick glob of O2 sucking petrolium jelly its nice to think back to a time when disease, lawless toughs, drunk, toothless jaggers doing their best to get a bottle of cheap wine to fend off the shakes. Sam Steward was a professor of literature, deeply alcoholic, and had realesed two books,as well as meeting many luminaries in the world of the word. However Stewart wanted out of teaching, badly, and lept from an ivy covered wall right down to the gutter of Chicago's State Street. Having kicked the booze with AA, he bought a tattoo trunk from an old circus tattooer name of Micky Kellett, and began a trade that brought him into contact with a world alive with vice. Taking, slowly, the chair of Randy Webb, in the filthy archade in the most dangerous section of the street, he fought off the cops, drunks, perverts, navy boots, and encountered all manner of loony toon activity. His college teaching years had not trained him for this, but under Nom De Machine as Phil Sparrow, put his name on the map, and trained Ed Hardy and mentored Cliff Raven. Since I can't hold a pen to Phil's writing, and I'm too lazy to get my computer out so's I'm doing this on my phone, I'll give you some highlights! Phil's list of prices for bothering him. Webb's rewiring the transformer and his five legged tigers. Tatts Thomas as the Preacher. Criminals, johns, tricks, lesbians, sailors, human skulls and MORE! Sparrow quit in the early '70s and morphed again, becoming Phil Andros, writer of gay S&M and rough trade paperbacks. Alfred Kinsey, the famed sex researcher, had Sparrow as a close contact. Kinsey in mentioned in this book, along with one of Sparrow's "lists". The full details of Steward/Sparrow/Andros' sexual research is born out in a book about him, Secret Historian. So if you like grit. If you like danger. Violence, humor, you'll find this book a fine read, right up with Stoney Knows How. Want the realnsights, smells, the sinking feeling that there is no way out of this alley, this is close as you're gonna get. Unless you buy crack. You don't do you? Of course not.

"My fuck," I groaned, sweating, "I'll never get out of the weeds." I rolled over, blinking, and saw my lady looking at me. "You alright?" She asked. "Yeah. Bad dream," The light of 3AM being way bright for me. "Bad?" She as always had to fish for it. "Work dream," I grunted. I've never met a woman more supportive of my endevors, and she even backs me on the crazy ones. A rare and kind person I am lucky to have met. I have been working on my machine building quite a bit these days and I must admit, I haven't set up a machine in a few months. "Was it one of your "I'll never catch up?" dreams?" She should be a therapist. "How'd you know?" I asked. Corection, she should have been a spy. "I heard you have that one last week. A "MOTHERFUCKER!" woke me." "Sorry," Said the Gloomy Man. She put her hand on my face. "You need to tattoo. It's your passion." "Baby, fuck those machines for right now," She added. She was, as she most often is, right. So today I spent a while playing my upright bass, packed up my building supplies, and pulled out my now very dusty, cheap, shitty Harbor frieght box full of machines and began what turned into a tuning session. And a visit with old co-conspiritors. Got me to thinking about my clients passed. So tomorrow I figure, what the Hell. Maybe I'll do a few.

My lady and I just got cable, and cable internet, which is why you get to read more of my stuff. Lucky you. Yeah, huh? I'll not watch Ink Masters. Just won't happen. I got burned by tattoo shows long ago, and once bitten, last time on the channel. I'll give 'em a shot for a few minutes, but then I see pin striping cars, and I hate it. But ya know, I'll watch shows where they do cover ups all damned day long. I guess its the people person in me. What is tattooing if not the hardest of all the customer service positions; "I really like the weight of these lines," Machine buzzing away, "Goddamnit! Quit moving around or I'm gonna fuck you up!" So we're digging the show, and I can't keep track of time. Dates seem to be a recurring "I don't give a shit" subject, time however never seems to come up. It does with me though. I have to make conscious effort to keep track of things like when I need to be places, or when I have a some poor deluded dummy who likes me stick figures with a lemniscate that pass for pin ups with huge hooters. I do pretty good too, so hey. Sometimes though, I just lose it. Five hours or five minutes? I'll have no idea and I look up, shit, it's 5 AM. So this ad comes on for Ink Masters. Fer one, just cause you have tattoos, don't make you an expert Dave Navarro. What's really funny is that I almost called him Dave Grohl. I like the man's guitar playing, but he 'effed up a whole Chilli Peppers record. Never mind that. Oliver Peck. Oh, little Oliver. What an angry, shitty little guy you are to people. I mean, I know it was hard when you came up, and it must not have been easy. But settle down man! Calm yourself. And I like toothpicks as much as the next guy. You're at Sizzler though, and that is one of the few places I'll walk out with a tooth pick. Just smoke. Do it. Take your pills too. I didn't notice who the third judge was this season, so someone is spared my wrath. The ad goes on. And on. And, AHHAAHAHHAHAHHHAHHAHAHA!, it's still on. "Are we watching this?" "Yes, we are," My lady says. "Please turn it...," I say. "Can't," She replies. I'm getting agitated. "Why not?" She smiles. "The remote is in front of you," I turn to look at the chair that we use for a table. It is, in fact, on the chair. I turned it. So I saw a whole minute. At least.

Don't get too freaked out, or too happy (take your pick there. Love for the Gloomy one, or hate so richly deserved? Just no apathy. It's the worst. I'd take disappointment over that!) since I have not given up crumbing arms for a living. "Well ya silly fuck, what's with the fake news? Not having one of those crazy spells again, I hope?" My lady and I live in a really fucked, scary place. Right over the fence is the hood. And when I say over the fence, it's a well jumped chain link deal that does not stop bullets. Seems every second or third Saturday night there is just a butt-ton of shooting. The only saving grace was that my lady, knowing how freaked I get by anything with feathers or hair, got me one of those tactical tomahawk things, and didn't even bat an eye when I came home tonight, "Honey! I got a new Ka Bar!" Our complex is so damned bad that I had to do some serious acting when we first got here. I found this guy Pete. Pete has this tiger... OK, lemme back up. Pete was standing out front when we first moved in. We didn't talk, I just saw his tiny little head and my mind blurred to Browning's Freaks, and Stoney and rat poop, backwards soldered needles on the bar... So one night I come walking out and there is Pete, big 'ol bottle of vodka in his hand. "Hey man, I like those tattoos," He says, stealing my line. I'm polite, so what was I to do? I took a drink. Handed the bottle back. Pete said, "I used to go to prison a lot. I know how to tattoo. (For the record any thing over two years sentence in the state of Florida is a trip to prison, not county jail. Unless you're being held for trial, and then that's a whole other different thing. So "used to go to prison a lot" doesn't fill me with the kind of confidence that say, would have me bring this guy into my home. To say nothing of line of sight of the medicine cabinet) I know where to pick up a strong case of Hep C, I thought. "Is that a tiger?" I pointed to kinda hashy, bad lined, but just in under the seven second rule, tattoo. "Yeah man, but he fucked the face up!" Well, no shit. "Sorta looks like a Tazmanian Tiger, really," I said, "I can fix that up ya know." Now he wants. And he wants some tattoo machines, needles (but they don't have to be clean), and a few deep cell batteries. So I scared the living shit out of him. When you talk to criminals Henry Hill was right, no swearing, no threats. I was just vague as Hell and LO, some how I got a lot of cred with this guy, who I still have not, nor will I tattoo. The CC as we call it is so awful, that all it needs is a tire fire. There have been three murders and robbery/rape since we got here. My woman says, "Don't go out at night!" It was one of those things though, had to go, had to walk, and there was no way getting around it. So grab my cane, and don't let it fool ya, I may be illin', but don't even mess with me the stick, and start walking. When I get up to the front part of the complex, there is the "legit" gang guys standing out there, and I hear one of them go, "Tattoo. I know he's got loot." Or something like that. I get ready to shit and run as fast as I can... and a long ambles Pete! "Don't fuck with that man," He said very loud so I could here it too, "He a good man. Kind man. And a HARD man. You're going to get hurt." "Thanks Pete," I thought and got to the store and back in one piece. I said "legit" gang as we have a group of young, well, Young Tattooed Boys. The YTB. I know because I saw graffiti one night that said just that. I was to say the least, unimpressed. Not my kind of people for one. I did the 'hood thing when I was young. Two, Young Tattooed Boys? What, is there a male review? Chippendale's called and failed your audition. You're a terrible male stripper and you need to get your GED. "Yo dog, they call me Magic Mike." (I punched myself in the eye for that, don't worry) Since I am sick, I just sit around all day. So I'm out front one afternoon. I'm relaxing, smoking an unfiltered Camel that scored from my bro Marty from Long Island who hates Manhattan. Up comes two of them, and as they go up the stairs I hear one say, "Man, fuck those two..." "Shut it, ya little faggot, " And I sat, waiting. Marty told me he wanted a piece too. Nothing. Silence. Stayed that way too, until I came home from getting a tattoo late one night. Out on the front of our building is a veranda, public, and here are four YTB, with two more down in the parking lot. Wouldn't you know it, the ones in the parking lot are running dope. "Fuck this. We're getting out of here," I muttered. I get up the stairs. "Tattoo! Hey bro, you tattoo?" I'm asked by this dumb looking kid with this real dense, heavy black and gray that'll have him looking much like the young d bag he once was when he's older. "Not your bro. And I'm retired," I light a cigarette. "Retired?" The littlest thug asked. "Not retarded. Retired, yes I am." (Big thanks to Sailor Ned, who's long been dead, for the attitude I've been having! See Ned here: " )"Wanna smoke a blunt?" I'm asked. I groan, "No. I don't and you all are morons for smoking out here." In can tell I'm making the shortest, and most heavily tattooed pissy. Why? Cause I called him a name. "What's your deal man?" He asks, "Why you got so little respect?" About two years ago I found out why my 91 year old grandfather smiles, closes his eyes and shakes his head. Because people are morons. "Cause your buddy here called me Tattoo. If you don't mind..." "We do," He said. I had my gun as I always carry in the car, but it's a narrow hallway, and who the fuck am I, Clint Eastwood? "Might have put a five tight in the tube or not. The question is, do you want whip shading? Well do ya, PUNK!?" I braced myself for a beating, shooting, or something completely different. The one who called me Tattoo did this real little kid, looking at the ground, and I swear that he moved his foot, like a coy chick from a bad 40s movie, right on the toes, "Do you think we can buy some tattoo needles from you? We got the guns..." In my head, "BWWWWWWWWAAAAAAA!" From my mouth, "Nope. Tattoo is not in the tattoo supply biz. Sorry Charley. Try T Mart!" With that I left. So, I dunno even what I was trying to get down on paper, digital, fuck, never mind. It was funny. Sorta? Where's Pete and the vodka? (Gloomy has promised to move if another tire fire starts in the now totally gated closed South parking lot. -Ed.) (Which is also Gloomy)

Hello all. I's still alive and kicking, and slowly I have started building machines. Just to proove it I got some new ink to share. Bert Grimm flash, and as he always had a good story... aw Hell, here is the link. See? Too damn dumb for a smart phone (took me 10 damned minutes to type this). http://tattooarchive.com/tattoo_history/floyd_pretty_boy.html Close to the ditch too. Yikes! Shawn at Monster Monkey did it. You owe yourself one from these guys, three best, kind, and honest artists. True class, all the way.

Oh, I see, getting tattooed and not coming to me. For shame! I'm joking, but thanks guys, it means a lot to me that you liked the intro. I don't consider anything I do all that great, but I figure others do. I got a sleeve and some big black work this week to do, so that should be fun. I do like black work, even though you sorta go into yourself when you do it. However, while I was outta town this week I found out a few things: 1. Not the first person in the family with tattoos. My uncle Ole got ink from Coleman in Norfolk (my 90 y/o Grandmother said he called him, in his Norse, "Dat Bastard Col-man!") and Wagner on the Bowery. Never met the old cat, as his idea of breakfast was a pack of Camels and coffee! And my Uncle Frank in TN got work in Phenix City (sp?), AL, and alls I can figure it must have been done by Stoney. He was in that tank killer brigade, in Patton's 3rd Army. 2. My Mom told me I hated pre school too. See, just a mean kid! 3. People say damned nice things when I'm not around. Which is much better that being told I'm a hack. 4. Made some calls, found a CNC shop that will take my frame order and turn it out for me. None of that BS casting or prefab. I used to build guns (the shooting kind!) so I have a bias for 0% flaws, and I hate finish sanding. So I'm thinking that machines will be up for sale, barring my lame illness, in December. Hand wound coils, with your cap of choosin'. Or no cap, getting real old time with silver contacts. And for the brave, with a condenser as used in automotive ignitions. I know it works, as I found a big thing on Walter Cleveland here. Figured might not be a bad idea. Sort of looks like a propane tank on the upright. No rubber band "spring" though. Maybe later. So I was thinking a Waters #2 liner, J frame shader, and Dietzel color packer. Unless anyone has better ideas. Please let me know, and you all take care, you hear?

I sold my BMW (don't laugh, I got it on the cheap) before I started my old shop. Miss those days with the wind in my hair and bugs in my teeth. Thanks for the link, you might think I'm joshing with you, but a ride through NSW sounds awesome. Those inspection guys are like that here too. They do inspection in my state, Florida, unless they are after you for something else, then they just use it as pretext for a search. How is the tattoo scene there? Funny, much as know about it here and Europe, I don't know much about it down there. Seems like a google search will be the first thing I do when I get up.

OK. You got me now. You ride? What does it take to ride as a tourist there? I've always been slightly scared of Australia, what with the snakes, spiders, those worms that bite the soles of you feet, the dingos... and those kangaroos. I'm scared of 'em I mean, you think, "Oh how cute!" Then they pummel you, take your money and shove it in their pockets and VOOOOOM! Gone.

Ya never know.. Australia? I'll travel around the world for a good beer anytime! You don't still have to drink in hotels there do ya?

Just thought I would say thanks to all that are pulling for me. As to Myles, dude, I hear you, however I like to think that people here, tattooers, collectors, all of us, have something together that people who don't wear tattoos will never have. Hey, people may look at me like I'm sick, but I just make 'em laugh. Determination can do wonders for you, and nothing can focus the mind like the thought of your own demise. And hey, you only get the one go round, no one gets to be here for the whole time, and you gotta make the best of what time you have, use it. That's why I'm looking into starting my own machine company. Nothing pretty, but all US made, coils and all. Brass no less too! To else, here is my abridged bucket list: 1. Marry my woman. 2. Start and finish my back piece (from an 1860s photo of a female Samurai) 3. Make machines and tattoo as long as I can. 4. Visit Norway and Germany. Norway is where my Grandfather, now 91, is from. 5. Finish my books I've been writing. 6. Make amends with those in my family and old friends who have not gotten along with. 7. Tell the rest of the mo-fos to eat cat poop. .... Y'all get the idea.

After a great deal of pain and my fiance' getting me to move on it I went to the doc's. I have these tumors... and they have been bothering me, and like many, I ignored it. I work, go home, and jump online for a few hours. "I'll get to it," I say to myself. So this pain was in my huevos, and that got me to go. Not fun pain in the least. My doc asks me if she can see the tumors. I go to unhitch my belt. "Noooooooo, " She laughs, "The ones on your back." I do, and her jaw drops, she turns white as a ghost, "Cafe Ole spots, fibroma... it's Neurofibromatosis type I." (A genetic disorder, and if anyone cares, here is a link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neurofibromatosis_type_I) "That's what I thought. A tattooer friend, who knows medicine, told me that a year ago," Said I. "Consider this a second opinion," She said. This doc has known me since I was eight years old, and she used to give me sample packs of antibiotics because my family was poor. I turned to her to jokingly ask her if antibiotics would help. She was still white, she had her hand to her mouth and looked as if she might cry. Nice lady, like I said. I stopped myself right there. "Is this what the Elephant Man had?" I ask. She nodded, almost unable to speak, "Yes... I didn't want to say..." I figured that, as I had seen a documentary on Joseph Merrick, although he had both NF1 and Proteus Syndrome. I jumped in the air and ran over to her. Granted, I wanted to give her a hug, but she's a pro, and since everyone in my mind is a potential client, I gave her a high five. "YES!" I yelled. "You're happy?" "Sure I am. I know what it is now, I'll find treatment as best I can fr as long as I can (there is no "out" for this, as Stoney St. Clair said about Ben Corday who had TB, "You watch the leaves fall and regrow for a few years, and then they bury you."), and I tattoo. Tattooing was a big part of the sideshow. My lady's family were all in the carnival business. So as I see it, all I gotta do is learn to paint circus banners, become a human volcano, and swallows swords. I can be my own 10 in 1." Of course the shock wore off, and now I'm none to pleased. My lady and I will get married, but until I can get checked out at a clinic that specializes in this, my prognosis will be up in the air. Not to mention I may not be able to work for much longer behind machines. Bummer two, I just tuned my Jim Dandy's after a year with no problems and they purr like vicious kittens. Sure, I got my books I'm writing, and I figure I can still paint flash for a while, but this has become what I always dreaded. Fatal illness. And it isn't even one I would have expected. Lung Cancer. COPD. Heart Attack, or a stroke. Nope. Not a one. In fact, this has been with me since conception. I have been a ticking time bomb of badness just waiting to happen. Bitter? Naw, just bummed I might have to leave the party early. Sad? Maybe that people will see me as a freak, and since there are no more sideshows, I can't go out. (I'd be tattooing on a sideshow right now if they would have me) So now it's SSDI and Medicare for me. Sweet. But I'm not angry. Shit, if I get real awful looking I can always use it. All the world loves a tattooer? No? Yes? They loved Stoney, and love Grime, so a big tattooed guy with deformities... maybe I'll still fit in. Anyways, for my one friend on here, I'll be posting snippets of my book now and again. Buy me whiskey, for I have no money for whiskey now. Oh and 11 mags. I'm out and using 9s. Yes, you feel bad for me right? (wink)

I was diagnosed with Neurofibromatosis type I. What does this entail? Fuck me, I dunno, as it progressive and unpredictable. I might just keep getting giant tumors, which I already have and have named for my favorite tattooers. I could get cancer, or brain tumors. My spine may curve, but my posture is pretty bad anyways. I could get tumors that break bones, and I can get a nice amputation for that. Or it may just disfigure me. It's what they thought the Elephant Man, Joseph Merrick had, but he had something else. Wanna know the real shitty part? It's expensive as Hell to treat, and I may be able to get through on SSI/Medicare/Medicaid, but my tattooing will always be underground. And right after I renewed my license too! I have the will to live, and my body is messing with me. When I make a bad joke, I laugh at myself and say, "Oh. I kill me." Now I add, "Literally." But am I complaining? HELL NO! Not even one little bit. Although I do find it shitty. Hence the post.

Actually I was just out, talking to the super in the building. He can get me rats, but according to Health Dept. regs here they're fine to use in a wheel power supply, but I have to run chords from the dirty room.

Gee, I thought my not using O rings was "old school". Can anyone give me the number and address of a hamster trainer?

I hate to throw around the word professional. I mean, what is a professional tattoo artist? Is it some one with dedication? Someone who understands art? Someone who can pound whiskey and tattoo a few hundred sailors in a night? Or is a professional one who does not slag off competition. One who treats even the dumb with respect and kindness, but yet has a line that you don't want to cross? Or is the professional tattoo artist one simply there to collect money, the art be damned? A scammer, full of BS? Well I think the whole idea of shit talking is utter non-sence, and I'm not scared to say it. Sure there are quire a few old timers who liked to sling mud, but in this day and age you can't say, "Oh, there are too many artists." You can back it up with all the excuses you can think of, but when it comes right down it, it's bunk. The population of the US (not to mention the world) has grown, and if any one can read past a needle grouping code and do the damned math, it isn't much different numbers wise, it's just inflation. Tattoos used to be from a quarter and up pretty much. Put in the mid 70s and beyond inflation and now you got big money coming in for you. Look, I like to pretend too. I like to think of myself as a big bad Bowery tattooer, rough and tumble, and ready for a fight I'm sure to win. Were those times tough? Damned right. Were those times good for people? Ask anyone robbed or beat up, or slashed with a razor. They'll tell you it was damned rough shit, no doubt about it. Frankly, I'm damned tired of it. "No business being in this business?" What was it Sailor Jerry said, "When you think you're the best, you're already on the way out." Ever think your egos might be getting the best of you? It's counter productive pride as I see it. If Tatts Thomas had not brought the young Norman Keith Collins aboard, we'd be missing so much in the art. If Roy Boy didn't let Paul Booth work his table, just where in the fuck would that "dark art" be now except for the inside of Booths sketch books? I recently saw a very old Booth tattoo, before he worked on his own. You know what it looked like? Flat, that's what, and in color. I'm not going to get all tough guy here, but really, it's 'mersh art that sells. If you have the guts to learn more, try hard and put up with a ton of shit, any knuckle dragger can be great. It don't take great minds, it takes guts. See? Guts. I have the balls to wear my ink, work, and I don't take a whole lot of hokum from guys and gals who sadly took a whole lotta shit to get where they are now. I was recently called a scratcher. And was told to "kill myself". I laughed. If they get angry, not only have you scared them, but you have them talking about you and maybe even on the run. I'm sure the part time artist who said it was pissed. I'm taking his money and whats more, I learned the right way, from a master artist. If I'm so "bad" why do I still have clients? You could say that people don't know art. And nine times outta ten that's true. But really, I'm the guy for my place and time, much like The Dude. I fit right in there. So to anyone who might read this that doesn't tattoo, don't let the braggarts fool you. Bragging is a sign of insecurity. To those who do tattoo, shut your mouths. More to come from a guy like me, be cause I'm not a Forty Miller. I refuse to stop, bad mouthing and all. And with that, I wish you a fine morning. Sorry I'm a grump. My back hurts from TATTOOING all day yesterday. (Let the insults come, but make 'em good. 0 to 100% grading scale, with no curve. Cheers!)

My lady has been nothing but good for me. Whats more, she's a fan of my art, off and on skin, and cheerleader for me to others. She has encouraged me to keep it up, no matter what kind of "entitled artist" BS I might catch or even when I get down on myself after seeing work that I might never be able to get to. She's been asking me for a tattoo for almost as long as we've been together, and I keep trying to find something from my mind that would fit her. I saw Eddie and Penny Funk on a 'tube video, and Penny said that when Eddie was going to tattoo her, she told him to stop. That his hands were shaking. That Crazy Eddie is one of the guys that I looked up to when I was young. Him, Irons, Rudy, Malone, Stoney, all those old timers. I didn't get it then, but now that I'm really in love, I do. It doesn't take a NY State Supreme Court ruling to tell you that with all the advances that have come about in the world of tattooing, it's just a much more speedy version of Tattau, or tapping ink into the skin with sharp object. "A barbaric survival practice..." Mine have all hurt like a sonofabitch, and I'm not afraid to admit it. Much as I channel what I jokingly refer to as "my inner sadist" (What's the difference between a sadist and a tattoo artist? We have magazines to read while you wait.) sometimes I just stop and think to myself how this is nuts and so are the customers. I mean really, if you told me that I would pay a few hundred bucks to have some one kick me in the jimmy, I'd tell you to lay off the glue and shut up. Yes I still get tattooed to this day. But the idea of hurting the ones I love, which would include my Dad (one tattoo, but wants me to do a snake on him) or my sister (who is rapidly catching up to me in what is turning out to be a family tattoo nuclear arms race for coverage) to my soon to be wife freaks me out. The first real tattoo I did, on my old bassist Jay, I was a mess. Sweating profusely I made sure everything was ready, clean, and I got to drilling him. I was quick even then, and he took it well, but I was saying sorry every five seconds. I asked for it is pretty much what he said to me, and not only did I make a Benjamin, he tipped me five packs of unfiltered Lucky Strikes and pint of Jim Beam Black. My family means much more to me these days then it did ten years ago. Call it a misspent youth or what have you, but now I see those past times as times I could have spent with them. As to my stunning, wonderful, and kind woman, I'm at a loss. It isn't her first rodeo, she has two already. But something inside me flutters, and not in a good way when I think about working on her. But tonight I sit here, taking a break from drawing a fairy and roses based on Sailor Bill Grimshaw flash as I write this. I hope she digs it.

As always, I'm showing up late to this, and will probably get a supreme typed ass kicking for it. Please bear with me as I have a little more "dirt" to toss myself. My first machine was not an S&R, but a Superior Supply "Raven", I guess that's what they're calling them now. And a liner/shader no less. ABS frame, plastic bobbins, and it even came with practice skin which has always seemed to me like a pin bender. When I thought I was "serious" I ordered a few Wasp machines, and you throw some Ringmaster springs on one, decent armature and run a good power supply (I run a CAT I ordered from Mike Skiver, who's mouth even made me blush on the phone and I grew up in a house full of sailors) and they ain't too bad. My point though is this, and watching Tattoo Age with DeVit made it clear; an artist, once he knows how to tattoo, can run a real pile of a machine, providing that it's set up well. I don't know too many artists who don't tweek them anyway, unless they buy Aaron Cain (which are truly works of art, and can chip up your drive way if the jack hammer goes South) or the like. I've used Chinese castings, they buy US scrap brass, and when all is said and done you have a pretty darned good machine. I have one I use quite a bit that was built this way, short stroke and I have no problems with it. That being said there are some trash machines floating around out there, but was said in above post, Malone used them, as did deVita for a while. Don't get me wrong, I'm also using two Col. Todd Jim Dandy machines as daily runners, with a strange, but highly effective shader/color packer set up that I honestly didn't ask Mr. Mora (Col. Todd's son) for, but I wouldn't trade for the world now. Makes it seem like you're drawing with markers, which is about my mental level anyways. If you look into it Huck wasn't a great tattooer when he first started, and according to Stan Moskowitz Huck ripped off a lot of the Bowery Boys' flash, later filing suit against them for stealing his! Eddie Funk stated that he jumped the price up by buying out a canal street pigment maker's stock. When Eddie said they had been friends for a long time and he didn't want to pay $30 a pound, Huck replied, "That is the price... my friend." He was good with a contract too, and didn't go along with most supplier's vow to not sell to scratchers. (What's a scratcher? A guy you might have to deal with having a shop near yours one day.) I know most if not all of you will not share the view I have on this, but there is a place for the wannabe tattooer. He or she is in old carny parlance, just a "Forty Miler", and will find his or her place at local fast food place when their clients dry up. Some may keep at it (Paul Rogers, Stoney St. Clair) and move to the next level and beyond, but a lot don't. Many of the old timers picked it up and taught themselves the basics. I guess though that with the boom in tattooers many of us are waiting for the bottom to drop out. Or being as we're the only artists that make money on a daily basis, we want to hold on to, or nail down our little corner of the world. But really, none of us are a Van Gough or Vermeer as our reputations die, and only a hand full care to remember. Only photos, flash, and machines survive. This world makes me think more of mortality then any other job I've ever done. With the exception of working roofing, 'cause beer, heights and nail guns just don't mix, you know? We're all fiercely independent, most free thinkers, but we get caught up in so much muck slinging that I'm sort of awed that conventions happen at all. As Ernie Sutton said to Zeke Owen when the convention was almost two decades away, "Because if you put us in a room, we'd kill each other." It's art and commerce. Spaulding just made his pile, and who can fault him for that? Does S&R have a 24/7 order line... I got that machine buying itch now (wink) (If you must curse at me for this post, I do have a 0 to 100% scale that I grade on, with no curve, so make 'em good.)

I got my first apprenticeship when I was 18 and had no idea what I was doing. (Funny, now I just don't know, but I know what I'm doing) I paid $1800 to a man and his wife who shall remain nameless. I'm drawing, cutting stencils, and all that stuff. They seemed like good folks. A little sleazy, but I was sorta sleazy then too. I never got to tattoo in that shop either. Four months in... I got to the shop Tuesday (closed Sun/Monday), early as always and stand around for a few hours. There was a pizza place across the street and I sit down and have a few .89 cent slices, and end up walking in the AC repair company office next door. I ask if they had seen them. It was said that there was an attempted armed robbery on Saturday night after I left at nine, and _________ had shot the guy. Turns out to be total BS. The wife, who worked there as well, had found out her husband was getting really good "tips" from dancers and had gone to town on his gear, pulled a knife on him, and scared him right out of the state. Not my place to speak of others infidelities, but I'd signed a contract! And with that his Harley, with the blown head gasket that was oft used by all of us as a bench to sit on while we smoked cigarettes (have to give it to them, it was still the Speed Stick days, but they had a no smoking policy in the shop) disappeared as if into thin air. I still that bike once and while... with him NOT on it. I have no idea what happened to these people but ___________ still owes me sleeves.