Fort Pierce Rest Stop Sextravaganza....

I was driving south on I95, blaring the Pixies and wondering if my radiator was going to explode again. Two days earlier, it did, right at the halfway point between Port Saint Lucie and St. Augustine as I was driving well over the speed limit. Antifreeze covered everything under my hood causing steam to billow out from any and every opening.

At midnight, pulled over in the middle of nowhere, with the moon and passing semis being my only sources of light, all of my options seemed expensive. To get towed in either direction would cost much more money than I had or even expected to receive in the near future, let alone the repair cost of a new radiator, assuming that was the problem and not a burst hose.

With the help of a polite FHP officer, I was able to get my hands on a few gallons of water, one of which my radiator consumed completely. I drove north wondering how far I would be able to reach before having to pull over and refill my radiator. The FHP office had advised me against this.

“If you end up only being able to drive another thirty miles north before breaking down again, you’re gonna be stuck between nowhere and nowhere. Then what are you gonna do?”

By the time I had realized I was already stuck between nowhere and nowhere, just south of Edgewater to be exact, I realized I may as well give it a shot. No difference between Nowhere X and Nowhere Y.  I was driving to see my girlfriend and nothing was going to interfere. And it worked. One gallon of water got me to St. Augustine and then back again.

But before I was back again, I didn’t know if I’d be back again. I ripped it down 95, keeping a steady eye on my temperature gauge, ready to pull over and refill my radiator at a moment’s notice. And while blaring the Pixies, I had another fear in mind.

See, just a few days earlier, my girlfriend introduced me to a young woman who is an ear doctor. We met at a local café to watch a concert. As we sat outside, the three of us drank beer and made small talk until the audiologist said, “Wow. That is really loud. I wonder what the decibel level is out here? It’s got to be at least a hundred. A hundred and ten decibels for eight minutes can permanently damage your hearing. I can only wonder what it’s like inside. I bet there’s an app for this…”

And wouldn’t you believe that minutes later she had one downloaded and installed on her iPhone. We sat outside, watched her test it, and sure enough, the audiologist had studied well. The meter reached a hundred decibels. To quell our curiosity we went inside to test the decibel range there. It maxed out the meter which could only reach a hundred and ten. We stepped back outside.

“It must be at least a hundred and forty in there,” she says, happy to walk out like we were sexual conservatives who had just accidentally stumbled into a nudist colony.

“You’re a horrible person to bring to concerts,” I joked.

And that was that. Now any sound I hear has its decibel level feared along with the potential of it permanently damaging my hearing. I fear I’ll be deaf by thirty, my ears completely rotted away in a few years after that. By the time Caribou was playing, I had the Pixies loud enough to actually hurt my ears. A hundred and forty decibels? I lowered the volume on my radio by just a tad.

And that was my trip. Driving fast, drinking coffee and worrying about my radiator exploding beneath my hood and the decibel level of my radio exploding my eardrums. But the things you really need to worry about are not the things you expect to happen. Certainly, you’re not driving down the road worrying about getting into a car accident when you smash into another car. Or walking down the street worrying about getting mugged when some guy jumps out of the alley with a knife demanding your wallet. These are usually not self-fulfilling prophecies.

Despite being just a few exits away from home, my bladder had indicated to my brain that it was time to pull over and pee. My brain sent a few similar neurotransmissions demanding food. I’m not one for vending machine food, but everyone has a breaking point. I don’t give you shit for buying alcohol in a plastic bottle; don’t give me shit for eating a bag of chips.

I parked my car and walked into the men’s room. As I opened the door, I saw two men standing there, so, as the first one walked out, I tapped the slimy rest area door open for him to leave.

He left. As I walked to the furthermost urinal in the corner of the men’s room, I noticed the other man hadn’t left. I turned around to give a quick glance behind me and noticed him standing in the corner. This seemed odd. In a rest stop bathroom, you should be peeing, crapping, or washing your hands. Nothing else. I stood at the urinal and unzipped my pants, but I couldn’t take my dick out. There I was: me, the destination urinal, and an old man.

I turned around for a second time and saw him standing in the corner staring at me. He was older, about fifty or sixty, and wore blue jeans, a plaid shirt tucked in, and had a white beard below his glasses. Turning around to find Chester Molester staring at me was as creepy as it sounds. I turned around and threw my hands up.

 “What’s goin on, man?”

“Not much,” he said, not looking stunned like we were standing in line at Macy’s. I turned back around to face the urinal for half a second until I turned back around to look at him knowing that yes, something much was definitely going on.

When I looked at him this third time, I realized what exactly it was going on. The old man was rubbing his dick. This wasn’t a casual, nonchalant scratch. This was an overt, attention-grabbing arrow pointing straight towards Old Man Dick Town.

He sent me an invitation with his soft yet serious and sexually adamant voice, “This look good?” His beady little eyes stared at me from behind his glasses, the glare of the pale rest stop lights coating the lenses.

“No. It doesn’t. You need to get the fuck out of here.” I hadn’t sounded that testosterone raged since, well, since the last time I was, and that definitely was not because some old man was trying to get off while staring at me in a rest stop bathroom.

“Um, well, uh, alright,” he mumbled as he was opened the door and slithered away. I didn’t think he’d leave. I thought he might charge so I stood there, waiting for him to charge, waiting for him to try and make me think he looked good, waiting to punch him in the throat and watch him take breathe his last breath while covered in rest stop floor urine. As the saying goes, I’d rather be judged by twelve than carried by six.

He never charged. I turned around and peed while looking over my shoulder. I was pissing adrenaline and confusion. I was caught off guard, certainly not expecting to watch some old man rub his dick in front of me at a rest stop. How I peed right after he walked out I don’t know considering I didn’t even want to see my own dick after this, but I did.

I rushed outside to find the guy. I was going to destroy him. I was going to call him everything but a white man and maybe send him straight to Lester Heaven, but I couldn’t find him. I haven’t wanted to beat the shit out of some guy since, well, the last time I wanted to, and that definitely was not because a man stood in the corner and asked me if the act of him rubbing his own penis over his pants looked good. He may as well have puked on the floor, eaten it and asked me if that looked good too.

I had a minute to get my senses straight and wonder about the possibility of a mother sending her eight year old child into that bathroom unattended. The thought made the desire to find him more purpose filled, but I also realized he could’ve been an undercover cop looking to find perverts; a really convincing undercover cop with an acting degree and the stereotypical genetics of a pervert.

Naturally, you wonder many things after an experience like this. I wondered what the third person was doing. You know, the guy walking out when I walked in. Did this guy just go for round 1 with him and was hoping for round 2 with me? Or did the third person not care that he was being stared at while peeing? What situation just occurred moments before I entered that restroom?

I also realized that I didn’t do what you’re probably saying you would have done and what I always said I would have done. And that is quick his ass immediately. But don’t let your high opinion of yourself get in the way of really knowing yourself because no man would have kicked his ass right there. Any man not willing to accept his invitation would have been so shocked, stunned and caught off guard that he would have been paralyzed in action, even if for just a few seconds.

While driving south again on 95, I interrupted my fits of gagging and restraining myself from vomiting by calling the cops and giving them a full description of the white-bearded man in the corner of the bathroom.

“Some old pervert just rubbed his dick in front of me at the rest stop on southbound 95 in Fort Pierce…”

“Ok, we’ll send someone out immediately.”

No use. The guy was already gone. I drove to work. I didn’t care about my broken radiator, I didn’t play any music at all, let alone too loud, and my overactive gag reflex marked my latest worry while the fears accumulated in my head.

.. ..

Big Bird Smoking a Crackpipe....

Money may not bring happiness, but the lack thereof will certainly bring unhappiness. There is something about having my bills paid on time that leaves me with a sense of contentment.

How many times have I been standing beside my car at a gas station filling my car up when a man approaches, explaining his plight, “I’ve lost my wallet and was hoping you could give me a few dollars for gas.”

My initial thought is usually “bullshit,” but I usually give a few dollars, never more than five, feeling that if I’m going to let this guy scam me, he won’t scam the hell out of me. Just a little scam, and it makes not much of a difference considering I could do without the five dollar bill and if this guy is telling the truth and he really needs gas to reach his destination, I’m more than happy to help someone out who is down on their luck. I knew one day I’d be on the other side of the line.

Well, almost. My girlfriend was kind enough to lend me twenty three dollars to make the three hour trip from her house back to the shop I work at. Considering I had just realized my bank account balance had a minus sign beside it, I would have been asking strangers for whatever they could spare, a couple dollars perhaps, maybe five, just enough to get me home. Having been in their position so many times, I’d have to explain, “Listen, I know what you’re thinking. I’m probably lying, right? But I’m not, and I’ve been in your shoes many times…just a few dollars…” My pride would not be sacrificed.

I speak with artists from shops in my city, in cities hours away, in cities in other states, and many agree: business is slow; horribly slow. And I’m sure not every artist is standing in a gas station somewhere asking for five dollars, but I believe that many don’t have the influx of money we saw even two years ago. I remember tattooing so many clients in one day that we’d have to turn people away so we could eventually go home and sleep, but now, I turn no one away. If you come into the shop, I will tattoo you. Our shop minimum of sixty dollars is a barrier that can be broken simply by telling me, “I only have fifty dollars.” Ask the guy whose hand I tattooed “Blessed” on recently for twenty three dollars. A few months ago, I learned a lesson about blowing off people with money.

I was standing outside the tattoo shop with my girlfriend, saying my goodbyes to new friends I had just made, a couple who also partnered together as filmmakers. The man, Brian, had just returned here from New England after moving away a decade earlier. He was unfamiliar with the area, the people, the places, its culture, and he seemed unable to grasp the idea that Port Saint Lucie is the same place he left it. I told him, “Believe me.  You’ve missed nothing except a few new strip malls.” The heat seemed to eat away at our bodies like a disease. Our skin was glazed over with sweat and the heat was inescapable.

The thing I have realized about people you don’t want to run into, is that you will always see them in the worst possible and most undesired situation, either that, or you will see them just as you were about to unknowingly escape the situation altogether. As we neared our goodbyes, inching closer and closer to concluding the conversation, a yellow bicycle nonchalantly rolled in our direction. The filmmakers stepped out of the rider’s way as he passed us. Moments later, I felt the direct heat of someone’s stare from behind me. I turned around and saw the man on the yellow bicycle. Our eyes meeting immediately ignited the opportunity for him to speak. I say man because he is old enough to buy cigarettes, and henceforth, that will remain the only reason I use the term “man” when referring to the person riding the yellow bicycle.

“Ay, man,” he began. I already knew where this was going. The feeling a skirt-clad young lady feels when a man overtly changes his direction to approach her and start a conversation.

“You do tattoos?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“You do gang tattoos?”

 “Not really,” I told him, even though we would because we’re here to make money, not provide a support center for confused and disgruntled youth. It was pretty obvious that he’s no stranger to drugs and these conversations usually don’t lead to anything besides someone trying to impress me with fake gang stories.

He rolled his bicycle closer to me. Despite the intense heat, he wore sagging jeans and an oversized sweatshirt. His boxers were the only barrier between his dirty ass and the bike seat. His hat sat crooked on his head. His eye contact with me was never interrupted and though it never relented, he never seemed intimidating. He had that blank druggie stare like he was just coming off a decade long high on any drugs he had heard about in a rap song and the permanent effect made you think he might snap at any moment and shoot us for being near him. His arms already had flash tattoos of clowns holding guns surrounded by smoke, faded from years of cooking at a fryer. He spoke long and drawn out, expecting his audience to be patient while he conveyed his idea, like an enlightened pothead expressing his views on how bad war is.

“How much would it be for a sesame and some guns?”

Like you, I also wondered what the fuck a sesame is. Usually, “sesame” is followed by a noun indicating the object. Like seed. Seed would work here. Does he want a sesame seed tattoo? I don’t know, and while standing in the burning summer sun on my day off with friends, I don’t care what a sesame is.

“It depends on how big it is, how complex it is, where it goes, and so on. We’re closed today. You’re better off coming in another day.”

“Does Mike tattoo here?”

“Yeah, he’ll be here later this week. Swing in on Saturday and talk to him.”

I told him to come in on Saturday because I’m off on Saturdays, and we in this shop like throw the odd clients to each other as a sort of practical joke.

“Oh hey, Hannibal Lecter, Shannon would love to do this tattoo. Let me go get her!”....

Not getting the hint, he continued on, “Well, I want to get this tattoo here,” he blabbered away as he reached into his pocket and carefully removed a poorly preserved black and white printout of the entire Sesame Street cast. It looked like a letter a soldier had carried with him throughout both World Wars, dragged through the snow, rubbed into the dirt, and trudged through the water, half-soaked in blood and sweat.

He held it up so I could see it. “Oh, cool,” I said, not thinking it was cool at all.

“I wanna get like, this whole chest piece, but I only got two hundred dollars. Can you do it for that much?”

“I’m sure we can work something out. Maybe you can come back later this week and talk to someone and get it all planned out.”

I cast him off as being one of the many people who just wants to talk about getting tattooed, but never wants to spend the money to do it. He’s not the first person to have this approach, and although it may not be wise to deal with a new person based on experience with another unrelated person, I decided to. I’m not here to discuss morals and ethics. Like many people in South Florida, I just want to get the fuck out of the sun and conversation with a nut only makes the experience more miserable.

He reminded me of a miniature lookalike of Doogie Howser M.D. who walked into the shop one busy Friday night and told me that this weekend would be the real highlight of his existence: his gang initiation, and in celebration and honor of this stoic experience, he wanted to get a back piece, with guns, bullets, and a multitude of other gang related images, most certainly to make his mother proud, proving his manhood on his 5 foot 6, hundred pound frame. Quite honestly, I barely heard anything he said in the whole twenty minutes he spent conveying some thought or another because the music was so loud my coffee was rippling. I didn’t believe his story for a second, but I love going along with people in these situations, letting them think that I’m in the passenger seat of the story, eagerly awaiting the next gun fight, stabbing, or drug-related accident. I don’t call people out like I did when I was younger, now I just sit with my ears wide open, waiting to see how far they’re going to take things. The second time hundred-pound-Howser showed up, he wanted an ICP hatchet man; the third time, a swastika tattooed on each eyelid. People like this don’t often get the tattoo; they just enjoy talking about it. And I go right along with it never advising him that he shouldn’t let his alligator mouth get his mockingbird ass in trouble. These are just confused kids whose ideas on how to live are derived entirely from television and shitty lyrics. I listen to their stories like one listens to a child’s story of fantasy and adventure that is the product of imagination. That’s the cutest story ever!

Just minutes into the discussion, the man, still sitting on his yellow bicycle, saw me as trustworthy and decided to let me in on the secret of his tattoo, knowing I wouldn’t screw him over and get the same gem tattooed on my own chest. A big favor here, revealing the Holy Grail of tattoos:

“I wanna get like Big Bird up top here smokin’ a crackpipe with the bitches and the hoes hangin’ all over him an’ shit holdin’ two guns. And then I wanna get Elmo with all like muscles an’ shit, like huge muscles, an’ The Count givin’ the middle finger, and the Cookie Monster with the muscles holdin’ a knife, an’ weed leaves falling everywhere and then I want the guns and the smoke and the bullets, black bullets,just like flyin’ everywhere.”

“The bitches, the hoes, the guns, the bullets, did I get everything? Oh, muscles and a knife. Got it. I’ll go whip this right up!”

By the time he got to the part about Big Bird smoking a crackpipe, I summoned my greatest willpower to contain my explosive laughter, which as I am sure you already know, only makes you laugh even more feverishly. And so I did. I let it out. But to make containing my laughter even harder, I could not look over at my friends who were themselves turning around to hide the air bulging from their faces. Never acknowledging our uncontainable laughter, he must have thought that we were laughing at a joke made earlier, because surely, Big Bird smoking a crackpipe is a monumental idea only to be taken seriously.

“Ok, well swing in later this week and someone can definitely help you out!”

I said goodbye to my new friends, unlocked the door to the shop and walked inside, expressing with urgency to this young man that I had “to check the meter.”

I looked outside as he rode away on his yellow bicycle. Confident that I would never seem him again, I was proven wrong when he returned the next day and the next day after that. I didn’t see him on the second day, but on the third, I saw his yellow bicycle sitting outside the shop with him on top of it. I believe “fuck” was the first word to come to my mind. By this point, he had decided to add blunts, boxing gloves for Big Bird, and a banner with the words, “Pimp My Hoes.” Testament to a gang life he claims to have lived through. “I use to be a hardcore gangbanger,” he tells me outside, “that shit’s no good.” ....

“I’m sure it isn’t,” I tell him, trying to sound sincere and not like a pretentious douche. I honestly don’t know what else to say to that. It’s like when someone told me that I should cut down on my salt intake as I dumped a good tablespoon all over my tortilla chips.

“It’ll raise your cholesterol.”

Yes, I’m sure it will. Thank you.

As we stood outside, listening to vague stories about his past life as a gangbanger, I noticed he was now dressed for the weather in a wifebeater. He was standing close enough for his body odor to infiltrate my nasal passages.

“Go ahead and take off your sweaty sweatshirt. Make yourself at home. Can I get you any deodorant? A douche? A fire hose?”....

This is an ambitious tattoo. How Big Bird is supposed to be smoking a crackpipe and holding two guns astounds me, especially while wearing boxing gloves. I’m sure this man does not often cross paths with logic and rationale, but his presence, although awkward and laughable, does grab you. What’s funny to admit, is that by day three, I had become use to him. Like a rash, that although I would prefer it not be around, I don’t mind it so much now. His ideas are foreign to me and would be considered childish to most, but once I let my guard down, listening to him speak became an interesting visit into someone else’s world. In other words, it’s like watching COPS, but I now saw him as innocent and with only good intentions, despite his admiration for crackpipes, blunts, and a muscled out Elmo.

His third visit was all it took to get the tattoo ball rolling having set up an appointment with the shop owner. The man gave my boss the faded picture of the Sesame Street characters and my boss made the appropriate notes, “Blunts…smoke…bullets…muscles an’ shit…”

“That’s real straight,” he tells me, after sealing the deal with Mike. “That Mike dude is real cool. He’s gonna hook up my tattoo.”

“That’s pretty cool, man,” I said, this time meaning it. He was sincere, you couldn’t deny that, and sometimes I’m so starved of meeting sincere people that this guy became alright.

A few more minutes of meaningless conversation and he rode away on the yellow bicycle, anxiously awaiting his sesame and guns. And sure enough, a week later this man was walking around with Big Bird smoking a crackpipe tattooed on his chest along with all the other characters tattooed on him from his beltline to his chest, a two hundred dollar outline that took an hour and a half and had the same quality as if he was paying twice that.

A few things changed from the original idea however. One, he changed the banner reading “Pimp My Hoes” to “Pimp Daddy,” feelings that “Pimp My Hoes” was too hardcore. While my boss was tattooing the words Pimp Daddy on him, he looks up and asks, “So, what is a pimp daddy?”

“Um,” I began, “I think it’s someone who gets a lot of girls.”

“Oh, because I thought it was someone who has prostitutes.”

“Yeah, maybe that too.”

More interestingly, I realized just hours after the customer left that my boss didn’t add “the bitches and the hoes” hanging all over Big Bird.

“Hey, Mike, you forgot to add the bitches and the hoes on that guy’s tattoo,” I told him.

“No I didn’t. His mom said that was too much for the tattoo.”

Too much for the tattoo. Blunts, bullets, crackpipes, the desecration of a famed children’s’ show. I agree, sexist and chauvinistic imagery would be too much.

Now, this could have been my two hundred dollars if I hadn’t blown him off and I’m not going to tell you that I regret blowing him off because all in all, I really don’t, but if everyone had blown him off, no one would have made the money and he would have gone to another shop. My boss got his idea, drew it up, did the tattoo and got the money. No attitudes, no stress. Just a simple everyday transaction. Among many things, our shop prides itself on being clean, always doing solid, consistent artwork, and never giving customers bad, rock star attitudes. And because of my boss’s mentality, one that urges the notion of giving everyone the attention they deserve (within reason, this shop employs no suckers), he won’t be standing at a gas station, asking for a few dollars, hopefully five. And aside from this occasion, neither will I.

I’m not a superstitious guy so karma is a concept that lies in the purgatory space of my mind between truth and fantasy; however, every now and then an occasion arises where I use the term karma regardless of its truth value. Circumstances often force you to believe, want to believe, a concept or idea you would otherwise discard.

On a recent trip to the supermarket, I was unloading a basket full of on-sale yogurt, Tofurkey, and other appetizing products when I distinctly heard the cashier ahead of me ask the snooty lady and her uppity husband ahead of me if they would like to donate any money to the March of Dimes.

A simple yes or no usually does the trick. It is unlikely the cashier is going to ask why if someone refuses to donate. I doubt the cashier will say, “Come on, lady. You know you’ve got the money. Open up your wallet and spill it.” But under the enormous pressure of standing in a public line without any warning that you will be asked to spend extra money when you have to give an immediate yes/no response can make the most ridged of us sweat. 

This leads us to an examination. Some people don’t like to lie and will refuse to do so under any circumstances. Others will lie, do it well, and never feel any remorse.  But across the globe there exists a species of human being that will walk you through the entire streamlined process of bullshitting: from manufacturing to processing to packaging and even walk with you to the shelf so it can be placed down to be picked up. But once it is placed down, this person will change faces and sell you cheap metal as gold.

The snooty woman smiled and replied. “No, thanks. We’ll send a check.”

I don’t fucking think so. Old yuppie wrinkle face will not make a mental note to write a check as soon as she slips in the door to her home. While she wants us to believe she is going to drive home in her SUV with her poodle on her lap so she can go home and sit down at her old antique oak desk, take her quill pen out, and carefully inscribe “to the wonderful and endearing folks at March of Dimes” on the check, I’m asking, “Who is believing this garbage? Did anyone just hear that?”

The middle-aged cashier ignored her decline for the donation as she counted the correct change to return to the woman. And while I prayed to hear the word “cunt” whispered from the cashier’s lips, the wind carried no such tune, but I believe it did resonate in all of our hearts, creating a vibration so strong, powerful and cosmic, that it delivered a heavy blow of karma to a rotten hearted old beast.

Unless you’re the type of person whose main source of protein comes from canned meat, you wait patiently in line listening to the questions being asked to the people in front of you so that when it’s your turn, you can answer those questions without hesitation or need for thought like you were up all night talking to yourself in the mirror.

So, I belted out a hearty “yes” when asked if I would like to donate to the March of Dimes. During this exchange, the penny-pinching trout was still waiting for the old man with the sunglasses to finish bagging her groceries, certainly repeating in her head as she stood silent, “Check for March of Dimes…check for March of Dimes…check for March of Dimes…”

The cashier, delighted in my positive response, asked, “How much? A dollar?”

“Sure,” I said, with the nonchalant, generous and laid-back mentality of someone who can spare a dollar to help, well, whoever the March of Dimes helps. Because that’s the kind of guy I am: the kind who donates not out of guilt, thinking about the suffering children/geriatrics/animals/poverty stricken Africans with a possible disease or poor socioeconomic status, but out of the need to give money whenever asked and for whatever reason.

The cashier added my donation to my completed grocery bill. She typed in “$100.00”

“Inflation,” I said, “is really affecting how I’m going to start donating my money.”

“Oh…oops,” she muttered.

As she corrected the total to reflect my correct donation, the woman beside walked me out, her check book metaphorically falling out of her pocket and onto the floor. I waited for the old man with the sunglasses to bag my groceries and I went home.

Normally, this story would have ended at “cunt,” but fate and karma would not have it such.

I returned home and unbagged my groceries. It was at that point that I noticed some wrinkly supercilious woman who refused to dip into her river of wealth to help those in lesser positions didn’t get her The Laughing Cow Spreadable Swiss Cheese. 

But guess who did. It was laying in the bottom of my final bag. I pulled out the container with The Laughing Cow Spreadable Swiss Cheese divided into delicious wedges and sat down at my kitchen table, kicked my aching feet up on a chair beside me, and removed a wedge from the container. I unwrapped the foil around the wedge and placed the cheese in my mouth.

Suddenly, I had the urge to vomit. I swallowed the cheese, yes, but only out of the need to not waste – and also to not look at the nauseating, creamy contents of what I just had in my mouth spilled into my palm. I looked at the container and noticed the word “spreadable.” That explains it. Spreadable foods are not to be eaten by themselves whether it be mustard, sour cream, or cheese.

Eating this spreadable cheese without a cracker is disgusting though I’m sure things would be different if she left those behind too, but I only donated a dollar and karma is fair. It’s like eating ketchup a la carte. No good alone; delicious on everything else.  And I don’t care. Each nauseating lick comes with the bittersweet taste of schadenfreude.

Because this woman refused to donate a dollar, karma intervened and she returned home neither to her checkbook nor to her The Laughing Cow Spreadable Swiss Cheese, retail price $4.49.

Snobby old woman: -$4.49

Me: $3.49

March of Dimes: $1.00

It’s almost like hanging up your cell phone and concentrating on the road. Except I wish you would do this with your life.

Not necessarily you, but some of the other “yous” out there. Give me a chance to explain.

I’d like to be apathetic, but I can’t. And I admit: apathy is much cooler than caring. So, if it’s worthy of being called a confession, than I confess: sometimes I care. About the animals? Alright, you found my soft spot. I’m a vegetarian. About my health? Got me there. Your wallet? Sometimes, if you’re not a prick. But being cool? Not so much. I usually don’t get along well, at least for long periods of time, with people that the general population would call “cool.”

The image of apathy is a man, one foot and his back holding up a building, smoking a cigarette and avoiding eye contact as he blows the smoke in the other direction of the person noticing him. Too cool. Also: too copied.

As evidenced by my closet filled with jeans and image-less, brand-less t-shirts, being cool isn’t something I’ve cared about since I was sixteen. Which means I’m currently celebrating my tenth anniversary of avoiding cool, not by smoking cigarettes and drinking Bud Light at clubs with fancy clothes and standing around women hiding their oral herpes breakouts under a half-inch thick layer of makeup, but by staying home, eating healthy, and going to bed on time. Eating healthy isn’t too cool and neither is going to bed on the same day you woke up. The latter, is only occasional and usually after a long, hard day of doing fatiguing, uncool activities.

A lot of people would expect me to be cool. Until they meet me. But I am to coolness what fat girls with head shots on their MySpace profile are to dating. I will fool you when we meet in person. Hopefully you were expecting the worst so you aren’t too disappointed. Some people however will ignore it all and still operate under the assumption that I am cool because I’m “all sleeved out” and work at a tattoo shop.

In our culture, tattoos are cool. I guess, but not having them is just as fine. Who cares? Get a tattoo or don’t get a tattoo. You’re still going to die and you still won’t get laid when you give women that creepy stare and tattoos won’t fix any of your problems. Tattoos are something I have plenty of, but to dispel any possible rumors, I don’t have them to be cool, I have them, well, I’m not sure why.

Smoking is cool, but perhaps too cool for me, so I quit. And because I quit smoking, I also have practically stopped drinking (I won’t claim to have quit). Drinking whiskey without something on fire in between my fingers seems like a complete pocket-draining waste of time. For those not in the know, smoking with whiskey in your belly is a lot like sex, and not just because you run the risk of catching a potentially fatal and incurable disease that is not worth bragging about (unlike the cool bad things to brag about: the goth kids brag about manic depression, the juggalos brag about psychosis and anger issues, and people who can’t stop fucking up brag about ADD/ADHD), but because smoking and drinking feels so damn good. But keeping in tradition, smoking was all too cool and I had to knock that behavior off sooner or later.

Slang: certain people pull it off; others sound awkward. I’m standing around in the latter group wearing a pocket protector and my pants around my waistline hoping I get a Barnes & Noble giftcard for Christmas. I primarily use words found in the English dictionary though my vocabulary may occasionally stray from it. Sure, I use the term “man” when talking to people and even slide in a “I don’t give a fuck” when I’m really trying to impress someone, but other than that, I’m keeping it pretty “original suburbs.” Sometimes, I’ll end a phone call saying, “later.” Other times, “Later, man.”

I don’t use terms such as “mil” or “g’s” because I never deal in currencies larger than one hundred dollars, and at that point, it’s only when I’m paying bills. I’ve never said, “His hedge fund peaked at only five hundred mil” or “My boy is makin’ mad g’s” because I don’t know anything about hedge funds and because I don’t call my friends “my boys.” But that’s not the only reason. It’s mainly because I rarely, if ever, catch myself discussing money in quantities larger than my rent payment – currently at nine hundred. Although I move annually, I have never lived in a place where I paid more than nine hundred a month.

At no other time has this been more relevant than now. Virtually everyone is low on money, whether low means searching underneath your car’s floor mats for change to buy gas or whether low is a perceived notion that the economy has seen better days although half of your travel still takes place in a private jet. If you’re not living paycheck to paycheck, or in other peoples cases, tattoo to tattoo, you haven’t experienced seen the economy’s bad side.

I understand that quite well when I’m working. If I quote someone a particular price for a tattoo and they ask for something lower, say ten dollars less than my original quote, I’ll say yes. No questions asked.

You want it? You got it.

This applies in all cases with all people except when you’re an asshole or just absolutely and incredibly irritating. I don’t mean “you have hangover breath so I lean back and point my nose 45 degrees away from your face” annoying, I mean “you’re such an asshole that if someone doesn’t remove the stone from the horseshoe in your hoof, I’m going to break your skull with a large rock” annoying. The way you talk to me is a great predictor as to what you can get out of me. To some people it is common sense while to others, understanding that attitude makes a huge difference in everyday matters is a concept they will never comprehend.

But I help people out in that way for a number of reasons. One because it’s easier than going back and forth providing argument and counter-argument over ten dollars, but also because it serves as a reminder that sometimes all you have to do is ask for something and you’ll get it. It’s worked with removing two hundred and fifty dollars of overdraft fees from my checking account and it’s helped me obtain phone numbers from a couple cute girls. It’s worked in small ways and large ways, and in the times that it didn’t pay off, I didn’t regret asking.

They got what they asked for because they asked for it. Not because they tried to dominate it out of me, a tactic guaranteed to fail. Acting like an asshole to strangers because it lends the appearance of toughness and domination is another passenger I saw on the cool train (with a destination that hopefully ends off a cliff). It also lends the appearance of insecurity because you won’t be accepted for who you are as a person. Ouch! All that money spent on gold chains and clothes and still, no one cares to be your friend.

Eventually, at some point in your life, you have to realize that being cool, on any level, and by any other term (although “being cool” is a pretty elementary term, it still applies to many people of all ages and socioeconomic statuses) is futile, ephemeral, and worthless. I’m not advocating the life choice to be “uncool,” I’m just saying that the whole notion in itself should be disregarded. If you really like that tribal armband, go ahead and get it, but make sure you’re getting it because you honestly like it and not because some jacked up bro at the beach had it. Hopefully you’ll have the wisdom to know the difference.

I know, I know. I’m sure you are all praising this grand wisdom. Although this may seem like grade school enlightenment to some of you, the whole act of being cool, on any level, is a burden that plagues so many people throughout their entire lives. Shedding it, curing it, is a grand feat for every human with boundless rewards and benefits. Finally, you’ll be able to focus on worthwhile, eternal, and productive things in life. It’s almost like hanging up your cell phone and concentrating on the road.

“Your friends are idiots.”

Not necessarily your
friends, but other people’s friends.

Well they are.

Stick with me now.

I use the “your friends are idiots” statement roughly zero
to six times a day depending on how many tattoos and piercings I do. I don’t
use it on everyone, just anyone I deem suspect of willingly associating with
moronic peers, which includes most people. If you’re under twenty-one, it’s
almost a guarantee I’m going to call you out on having friends who claim to
know a lot more than they do. Nothing personal. I’m not implying you are stupid, just that some of the
people you know are.

Wait, no. I’m not implying some of the people you know are
stupid. I’m saying they are - because
they are. And some of the people I know are stupid as well. Look at that. We’re
all in the same boat together, cruising down the river and not always having
the chance to choose the person that bought the ticket for the seat next to us.
Cute.

It’s not that I’m an asshole; it’s that I know there are a
significant number of people in our population who spend a lot more time saying
“I know” than they do actually asking questions so they really can “know.” The
appearance of not knowing is far scarier and more horrifying and embarrassing
than of not being trusted again because they are known to give out false
information.

If I ask you the population of Lithuania, don’t tell me four
and a half million instead of “I don’t know.”

I tattooed a friend’s nephew not long ago. After I finished
his tattoo, I taped a bandage over the bloody area and told him the best way to
care for his tattoo.

“Your friends are idiots,” I told him. “Don’t listen to what
they’re going to tell you. All you need to do is wash your tattoo a couple
times a day with soap and water. If it gets too dry and itchy, use a small
amount of unscented lotion after you wash it to help prevent it from getting
too dry.”

“Alright,” he said, paying close attention to my words.

“If your friends tell you to use Neosporin, Bacitracin, or
anything else, you have my permission to call them fools who don’t know what
they’re talking about.”

My friend’s nephew laughed. I was serious in my message, but
humorous in the delivery.

A couple hours later he called me at the shop.

“Roy told me not to use unscented lotion because it will
pull the color out. He said to use Bacitracin. What should I do?” He sounded
concerned. Justifiably so.

“Roy doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Bacitracin is
unnecessary and could cause problems (though not definitely). Unscented lotion
won’t pull the color out.” Thankfully, he double-checked with me.

And so it goes. Not all clients call to confirm however. No
matter how many times I give a client aftercare instructions for a tattoo or
piercing, I still get someone coming in with a problem because they disregarded
my instructions and listened to some ill-informed, self-mandated expert in
“body modification” because they have a tattoo and a nipple piercing and met a
tattoo artist in line at 7-11 three years ago.

“My friend said to clean it out with bleach and a wire scrub
brush six times a day…Soap and water could lead to an infection…”

I didn’t start this to complain about clients who disregard
my aftercare instructions. I still sleep fine at night knowing that all I can
do is lead the horse to water.  After
that, my last device is hope. Rarely will I feel sympathetic for someone who
shoots themselves in the foot – after being told that if they point the gun at
their foot and pull the trigger, they will shoot themselves in the foot.

But the “your friends are idiots” assertion is not so
surprisingly universal. Tattoo and piercing aftercare is just a small island in
a world with a bullshit epidemic. Throughout life, everyone is trying to offer
you an onslaught of shitty advice on everything from the food you should eat
and the way you should react to a dilemma with your significant other (people encourage
you to over-react and “leave that bitch/motherfucker”) to convincing you to get
wasted the night before a job interview.

People rarely give you advice with your best interests in
mind.

And thus, taking advice is something that should rarely be
done. I’d like to be cute and tell you to always follow your instincts, but
sometimes instincts lead to murder scenes. For those of us who don’t default to
violent solutions for which our brains can find no other problem solving
technique, I think instincts usually lead to results that make us happier in the
long term.  

I’d like to be a suave, wise man and tell you I have no
regrets. People often say, “I have no regrets; just experiences I learned
from.” It always reeks of denial. Everyone has regret. If 25% of teens have an
STD, then definitely, at least 25% has regret. And probably more than one.
Anyone who says that they have no regrets probably took no chances.

I have plenty of regrets. And I’m scared knowing that I’m
foolish enough to end up making a few more before I die. But unlike many
people, I figured something out to help reduce the number I could easily make: Many
of the situations I regret most happened because I was under the influence of
someone during those situations. I wasn’t myself. I was acting to please
another person, or rather, from a stricter psychological theory, to avoid
feeling outside the circle of acceptance.

And just for the record, the whole “circle of acceptance”
thing is something every human should shrug off their shoulders before high
school graduation. Failing to do so will result in a lot of shitty choices
throughout life. Find some decent friends or have none at all. Not having
friends is not as frightening as it sounds. It can actually be quite liberating
if you have a couple hobbies to keep you busy.

There is a bright side to it all. The situations I am
happiest about in my life happened because I made a decision and completely
disregarded and refused someone’s unrequested advice. I did what I knew was
right. Cute, I know, but very true.

All I’m trying to say is that a lot of the people you know
aren’t smart. They’re really quite dumb. Even your friends. Even the ones with
degrees, nice cars, and fancy hairstyles. Especially the ones with fancy
hairstyles. They please and congratulate themselves a lot more than they really
deserve to. There’s a whole lot of “patting yourself on the back” happening in
living rooms and workspaces across the planet.

Don’t be afraid to ditch someone who ends up holding you
behind, no matter how long you’ve known them or what your connection once was
and no longer is. A lot of people are spending a lot of time dragging you down
because they don’t understand your definition of success. Keep an eye out for
the smart ones. Keep an eye out for people who say “I don’t know” or “I never
quite considered that.” It means they’re still open. More importantly, it means
they’re less likely to bullshit you.

And by the way, don’t put Neosporin on your tattoos or clean
your piercings with alcohol. You’ll cause a lot more problems than you’re going
to solve.

Your psychological and childhood issues are so 1995. So Korn. So, “I’m so alone in my dark world of darkness where everything is so dark.” Get with it. Overcome. People have done a lot more under worse circumstances. So can you if you stop being such a pansy.

People often give their hairdressers the second job of being a therapist. The same with bartenders and the same with tattoo artists. And ok, fine. I’ll listen to you if you’re story is legit, unexaggerated, and honest. I enjoy just sitting around and telling stories, no matter what your sins are, no matter what you have done wrong, no matter what the case may be. Friends sitting on a porch, drinking whiskey and telling stories is one of my favorite pastimes. As long as you’re a good person or at least honestly strive to be, I’d like to sit down and have a nice chat. Doesn’t that sound nice?

But sometimes, things go wrong. They don’t work out as expected. Chances are, you may not have the ability to not bullshit me when you’re telling me a story. I know it’s important for you to put off some image of whatever it is you want to be, so the ever-lingering obligation of having to tell me visible lie after visible lie is looming over you at all times. I understand your ego is very important to you and must constantly be blown, but here’s a little secret I want to share with you: I might be interested in what you’re saying and like you a little bit if you just cut the shit and speak to me on an equal level.

I am not interested in your pushy, long-winded, verbose, spew-fest of opinions and thoughts. Oh? So you belong to such and such religion and political party? You are of such and such ethnic background? Great. I’m not offended, nor am I proud of you. I just sort of acknowledge it and move on. It neither angers me nor makes me like you anymore. It just slightly irritates me when you walk around with the t-shirt, hat, poster, stickers, loudspeaker, and hammer that bashes my skull as you try to tell the world about how wonderful you are. These things do not lay the foundation for respect and admiration. The way you live your life every day does. So thanks, but fuck off.

Another piece of advice: check your emotional baggage at the door. Sane people tend to take less time to explain something than people with severe mental issues. If it takes you twenty minutes to tell me what you want as a tattoo, chances are, you’re talking too much. I understand one idea may take a little longer to explain than another, but if you’ve been talking for more than ten minutes, you can bet that I have already stopped listening and my attention is thinking of ways to escape the conversation. Hell, I don’t even mind talking to a stranger about tattoos – as long as this stranger does not go off on some talking fit about his high school buddy having a tattoo on his shoulder, or is it his calf, of a Tasmanian Devil, or is it a warlock with a pot leaf next to it, and oh, let me ramble on for twenty minutes while I tell you about my favorite band and the twelve ideas I have for full sleeves and one day I’m going to be all tatted up as though tattoos are going to bring me the good life. By the way, have I mentioned how interesting I am?

If you’re going back to college for the twelfth time, I’m happy for you. I’m not being sarcastic. I really am glad that you’re taking a step to better your life, but maybe we can tone down the time of self-praise to somewhere under a half-hour. Remember this: People are usually more impressed with what you have done, whether you tried and succeeded or tried and failed, than with hearing you talk about doing something.

I’m not interested in your drug addiction or the fact that you’re currently high on anything. Come to mention it, once you begin bragging about that, you’ve sort of made yourself into the poster child for losing. When I drink and I’m dealing with a sober person, I somehow remind myself to keep the conversation to a minimum and not ramble on. I would appreciate that same courtesy. Just because we’re in a tattoo shop, does not mean that we will be impressed by your drug addiction, STD, or inability to stop ruining your own life. You may feel that it is ok to drop your inhibitions at the door, but you’re only thinning the line between a friendly conversation and your next visit to the hospital. Speaking of violent fights, not every confrontation has to be solved with one. Sometimes, words are a little bit more effective and appropriate. Stop trying to be tough guy. There are enough assholes and drug addicts in the world so that a fight will one day be inevitable. Unleash your aggression on someone who deserves it.

Attention, self-proclaimed long-dicks: I’m not interested in who you just fucked. Especially when it is a blatant lie and your story contradicts itself multiple times in its entirety.  Even if it was true, I wouldn’t care; the fact that you’re lying just makes me drink more coffee so I have a reason to get up and walk away. I would rather hear that you’re a virgin for religious or other admirable reasons because that shows a sign of strength and dedication - than to listen to you lie about who just gave you herpes. Our lives are not hinging on who you just engaged in a half-minute, embarrassing copulation session with. Not only do lies always come back to you, but your honesty and admit of defeat will gain you more respect than your bullshit tales.

If you get offended a lot, it’s not everyone else. It’s you. Maybe you’re too sensitive and unaware that you’re constantly looking for a reason to feel wronged or offended so you can try to hand someone a huge cartload of bullshit to feed your drama-starved ego. Stop getting offended so easily and frequently. If your pride has been hurt, I’ll try to find time to cry for you, but work on ridding yourself of the unnecessary, valueless source of pride that sets you on some invisible pedestal. Being an asshole doesn’t earn you respect.

To cut my own bullshit rant down before I become Michael Douglass, I just want you to know, I don’t care what you believe in, what you do, what you care about, or what you’re doing with your life, so long as you’re not ruining my life, your life, or the lives of those around you, and you’re not rambling on to me for a half hour about the same thing with an onslaught of emotional baggage and egotistical self-care. Cut the shit. Short. Precise. Concise. Honest. That’s all I want.

Feeling good takes more strength than hurting yourself.

Often times when falling, we have the tendency to allow ourselves to keep falling rather than stop to find the strength to rise back up again. An all too human condition. As the consequences worsen and become more damaging, it is then that we find even less strength to better ourselves. It's almost like our minds and bodies work against themselves: the more you hurt, the more you want to be hurt; the more you hurt, the less you seek aid, and with addictions, the more you're fucked up, the more you strive to remain fucked up.

The last time I saw Craig I was apprenticing at the shop. While cleaning up, I stepped outside to beat the wide broom on the sidewalk when he passed me. Dust filled the air as he walked towards me from Harper's.

"Craig! Long time no see."

"Dude! I just got kicked out of fucking Harper's", he yelled, boasted, and complained all at the same time. His voice was always loud. Somewhere in the space shuttle range of a decibel chart. Twice as loud when he was drunk.

"How come?"

"Fuckin' shit. I don't know. Starting a fight or whatever. Who gives a shit. Fuck them." His thick New England accent had the authenticity and proper "twang" to ignite a fight in any setting.

He said, "Fuck them" in the same way you say "fuck them" when you get fired from a job for doing something you deserve to get fired for. An admission of guilt in the tone in which he denies it.

That was Craig. Craig wasn't fighting. Fighting was Craig. If you wanted to go out drinking with him, you had to be in the mood to fight otherwise you better stay home and play sick. He was drunk. Irish. Boston accent. Angry. Drunk. He was short, dark haired, and with a belly that lay just over his belt and his level of energy always made you feel like you had to have your reflexes in prime condition at all times in order to keep up with what might ensue as a result of his presence. His attire was eternally jean shorts, t-shirts, and steel toed boots. He told me about the ST tattoos he saw at the Suicidal Tendencies concerts he went to up north.

I met him in 2000 after he moved here from Connecticut. He worked at a job site making trusses where he met John, and through John I met Craig. No one at that job site had any hope whatsoever and it was through that lack of hope and that feeling of being so close to death that my friends and I became close to Craig. You find a cause in a lack thereof, and hence our friendship.

We were all so ill equipped with wisdom that we didn't know how we had made it as far as we had and there was a union to be found in that. We had a lot in common, in so far as we all smoked weed, drank liquor, and listened to Suicidal Tendencies, but when you're 18 as I was at the time, that's enough to lay a solid foundation for a friendship. It's not until you get older that you become a lot more pretentious.

Craig was the new guy in town. He was from Connecticut. I'm from Connecticut. When you meet someone new to town, any sentence uttered can easily be absorbed as truth. Especially when you're from the same state. Especially when you're 18.

..          Ted Stevens is a cowboy who just rolled in off his horse from Nebraska, but the horse ran away so Ted's in town for a few weeks in the Farrell Motel in Fort Pierce. His ranch just got bought out by some big company in millions but Ted won't ever stray from his cowboy roots. Really keepin' it real. Truth? Well, Ted's wearing a cowboy hat so I guess so.

..         Diego Suarez was a doctor in Venezuela for thirty years until he moved to America to avoid persecution from anti-government factions (it's hard to keep up with which governments are currently undergoing coup-de-tauts so I believe him). Unfortunately, his medical license is not recognized in America so he's been working at Winn-Dixie for the last decade until he can make enough money to pay for medical school. Well, he's got a Hispanic accent and diagnosed me with the common cold after hearing me sneeze, so I guess I'll believe him.

Craig's story was that he was best friends with Aaron Louis from Staind. Me and my friends weren't Staind fans, but at 18, being best friends with the lead singer from a mainstream band was as impressive as owning a new car at 16 – and having sex in the back seat of it regularly. He proved it to us one early November day when he asked his mom if Aaron was coming to their house for Thanksgiving.

"He said he was going to make it," she says from the kitchen, her body and attention focused on the food she is cooking at the stove. She responded so quick we had no reason not to believe him. She didn't even ask, "Aaron who?" It was either planned out and well rehearsed or truth.

A couple weeks later Craig tells me, "He's not coming. He's going to be on tour."

"What's it like seeing your best friend on TV all the time," I ask him, sitting on his couch watching TV.

"Oh, you know, you just see him up there; you get used to it, it's kind of weird I guess."

But Aaron never came to town. Never drove through. Never stopped in to take a leak. Never mentioned Craig in an album cover Thank You list. And sooner or later, no one talked about Aaron. The case was later tacitly closed and stamped in big, bold, red, uppercase letters reading "MYTH."

Shortly into our friendship Craig got arrested while working at his construction site. He was selling weed at the time, and when a Haitian man he had suspicions about asked him for some product, he told him to fuck off. The Haitian guy responded impolitely so Craig responded by bursting a hammer into his temple earning him the moniker "Thor." He spent three months in the county jail with an attempted battery charge.

The times my friends and I spent with Craig were gambled away by drinking, smoking cigarettes, and talking about music. We also spent a lot of time talking about how hard life was and how stupid everyone is. Years later I realized that life is only hard because you complain about how hard it is and the people who complain about everyone else being stupid are usually equally stupid. Well, such epiphanies separate friend, but not intentionally. And I'm sure those of us left still think a lot of people are stupid. And damnit, rightfully so. Some things from youth we will never let go.

When Craig's mom and stepdad moved out of the house he was living in he took in two roommates: a friendly gay pill addict, Joey, and his sometimes friendly girlfriend pill addict, Nancy. And hence was born a trifecta of pill abusers all living in the same house off Midway Road all awaiting the same fate. They never knew themselves let alone each other. Their lives were constantly run on the brink of ending, both literally and legally and sobriety was something they only felt when waking up in the morning.

I don't know where Joey came from, but a guy like Joey just shows up on a doorstep and is let in for hot porridge and tea. I show up one day and it's "Hey, this is Joey. He stays in the other room." The only thing I remember is that he'd always come home from a late night of pilling and drinking from the only local gay bar. Despite my inability to match clothes, he thought I had the gene, the chromosome, the limp hand. Whether it was my long eyelashes or my hesitancy to call my friends bros and high five while watching the game, he thought there was some possibility and hope that I'd one day be gay – just like him. Just a couple of gay guys trying to make it in this crazy world. Gay people often suspect non-gays they want to bang of being gay in order to support their hope of banging them and I had the fortunate luck of receiving this suspicion. 

"Phil," he'd say with an optimistic lisp, "I'm going to take you under my wing." And he'd wrap his arms around my shoulder and pull me in close like a brother.

At the time, I thought he wanted to teach me his wisdom, being that he was roughly six or eight years older than me, and I always wondered when I'd start learning something being that I was under his wing and all. I later realized he probably just wanted to have sex with me. I would have made a great, naive altar boy. Phil Grech: Easy for the taking.

Joey ended up getting kicked out by Craig for being a slob. A few years later, Craig told me that Joey died of an overdose: pills and booze. Someone found him cold a bed in a cheap motel room in Fort Pierce one morning. Two out of three left.

Nancy had the energy level of Terry Schiavo. No matter what you said to her, she always replied to you in a voice like she just woke up. Slow, drawn out, hesitant to answer, and with all the time she took to tell you something, you'd expect the meaning of life to fall upon your waiting ears but you'd only end up with something that either left you more confused than you were before you asked the question or reaffirmed that although she was friendly at the time, she could probably "take it easy a bit."

Craig met Nancy this easily: Mike, John, Craig, and I all stopped at a gas station in south Stuart one weekday night. For whatever reason, we were there for an extended period of time. John was going to kill time by impressing us all with his famous, infallible, and always successful line of hitting on women:

"Yo, girl. When you gonna let me play in yo panties?"

He was confident this was going to work. He wanted us to wait in the parking lot by the car while we watched him through the large windows putting his class to use. That line is so unsuccessful, so predictably unsuccessful, that it's has stained itself as an immortal joke. A good way to start a conversation when someone answers the phone.

"Yo,Mike. When you gonna let me play in yo panties?"

John did not get to play in her panties, but Craig was introduced to a girl that he would spend the last years of his life with.

As his final years passed, Craig and I saw less of each other. It was a long time until I saw Craig at a party thrown at Mike's house. I showed up at 2am sober as a judge. It was a house full of shirtless men.  Drunk, shirtless men. Completely wasted, drunk enough to encapsulate five St. Patrick's Day parties into one hour, shirtless men.  When I arrived Mike told me he was going to throw me into the pool.

"No, that's ok."

"Nah, c'mon, you're going in," he urged.

"I'm not going in the pool."

"No. We all went in. Now it's your turn."

Clearly, whatever happened before I arrived was a real drunken, bonding moment for all men present, but sober and tired, I wasn't interested.

"I don't care who went into that pool. I'm not going in there."

When he grabbed my sober and fully clothed body to throw me into the pool, we started fighting. Within seconds, I had my knife to his throat.

"Don't put me into that fucking pool."

We fell onto the ground. Well, we fell onto my left knee (the reason for a later diagnosed case of post-traumatic arthritis in my left knee) until the fight was broken up. At this point, half the party, drunk as the Confederacy, was ready to drown me in the pool less throw me in. I ran around the house, hopped the fence, and jumped into a waiting car. Nancy was out front as I jumped in.

"Fuck you, you fucking asshole!"

"Shutup, cunt!"

"You're a fucking pussy! You never stand up for yourself!"

"You're a fucking drug addict, you bitch!"

"Whatever. That's why your friends always stand up for you and you never do anything yourself!"

"In case you didn't notice, I just pulled a knife on my friend, you fucking drug addict!"

I didn't see Nancy much after that, but from what I understand, the only thing new with her afterwards was her track marks. That's not to make a joke. It was the last thing I ever heard about her. It's always sad seeing someone you know in that position. There's usually little you can do. Talking is futile in almost all cases. No one has seen her or talked to her in years. It's assumed she took her last breath and the reason is assumed as well, but no confirmations can be made.

Very recently, I got a phone call that Craig died while living in North Carolina. Last time we spoke he was in Connecticut. We all speculated and assumed the cause but for our own reasons, didn't say them aloud. When I asked about Nancy, I was told she probably died before him. It's easy enough to believe so that if I saw her tomorrow, I wouldn't believe I was looking at anything but her ghost. At one time they were all tenants of a single house, never a home, just a place to pay rent; their lives lived like winter without a coat, a home without heat.

There is no anger involved. No hatred, no fragmented happiness. No despise, no discord, no distaste. We just went our separate ways as friends often do. Drift apart. When one remains stagnant, the other journeys on and looks for more. One finds his place in rebellion with drugs; the other doesn't. I wish I could have saved someone, but although I can say other people helped me with my problems, ultimately it was me who saved me. The person saves the self, often with another's influence, but it's always the person who saves the self. The same goes for anyone who escapes. There is no "better than the other" mentality. I am merely explaining the events, telling the story, explaining the circumstances.

Working at a tattoo shop is great. I can wear jeans every day, have any hairstyle I want, having tattoos is actually beneficial (no one wants to get tattooed by someone without tattoos), and if someone gets really out of line, I can tell them to "fuck off" and "eat shit and die," and in some situations, I can be reprimanded if I didn't do that.

With the ever increasing popularity of tattoos and its accompanying lifestyle, a lot of people believe they are experts in and of the industry. It's a shame that so many people flatter and please themselves with the idea that they have some grand and seemingly innate knowledge in some field without having ever studied it, like they were knighting themselves in someone else's kingdom. This is a fine example of why I get pissed off when people just can't be humble and say, "I don't know." Those three words make me respect people a lot more than when they spew some blatantly wrong factoid that reeks of bullshit, both in context and delivery. It always seems that everyone knows you're lying except for you.

A lot of people are walking through our doors, filling up their gas tanks, standing in grocery store aisles, and walking to their mailboxes with a flamboyant pride. As they do these things, their shirt sleeves are rolled up, the half-inch thick layer of A&D ointment glistens in the sun and I can't decipher the image underneath, but they will explain: "It's a barbed wire armband with a dolphins symbol on the outside, but I wanted it to be different because lots of people have barbed wire armbands so I put some red around it." Instantaneously, this man is infected and will begin tossing out tidbits of advice to his un-tattooed and recently tattooed friends as though each molecule of ink simultaneously injected him with the knowledge to do this. But the pride comes from a lot of places. Some because of shows that popularize and dramatize tattoo culture like Miami Ink and LA Ink and others because they're just that obnoxious and naïve enough to fool themselves into believing that.

I want to dispel some of the myths and downright falsehoods that seem to plague tattoo shops and drain my mental energy to the point where I am no longer listening to you, but instead am visualizing throat-punching you and kicking you onto the floor like the last woman who was in here with the neck brace. I think she was a coke addict. She was rambling off at the mouth with sixteen different tattoo ideas and as soon as she was onto the fifth idea, spending precisely one and a half minutes on each idea, she'd jump back three spaces and begin her inexplicable dictation on that idea. I have two hands and one often hung over brain. Let's take this one step at a time.

When she's done with her speech, she tells me she'll have one or two grand to spend in one day on tattoos and I tell her that's great as long as she can sit for that long.

"Oh, I can sit for that long. As long as I can have a few drinks before." Her voice is raspy and she carries the demeanor and IQ of an American Gladiator.

"I don't care if you have a couple drinks as long as you're still while I'm tattooing you."

"Oh, that's ok. I just won't snort anything up my nose before I come."

Yup, she was a coke addict.

I often have an admirable patience, especially with those who deserve it like the elderly and handicapped. I will sit and wait and I will not complain. Many circumstances are understandable; however, driving below the speed limit is not and neither is being completely stupid, and so, here we go:

One color does not hurt more than any other. Green does not hurt any more than red or black. White may appear to hurt the most, but that's only because it's often the last color applied and by the time the artist reaches the last color, you may be in the most pain, especially after a long tattoo.

Explanation: The ink isn't causing you pain. The needle is.

Tattoos hurt. A lot of people even believe that they [seem to] hurt more the older they get. Unless your friend was on a liver-dissolving amount of painkillers at the time of his tattoo, he is lying when he says it didn't hurt. It's a needle bursting through your skin over and over and over again; however, the pain is bearable. I cannot tell you how much your tattoo is going to hurt other than telling you one part of the body generally hurts more than the other (e.g. the arm generally hurts worse than ribs), but that is still no indication of how you will react. Some sit great for their ribs while others whimper during their arm work. Furthermore, the pain is temporary; the ink is permanent. Let's leave the discussion at that. 

Currently, our shop minimum for a tattoo is sixty dollars. Yes, for something that small. Yes, even that small. Yes, even for a freckle on your arm. It costs money to set up and we are here to earn a living, with some artists supporting their entire family. Tattooing you for fifteen dollars will leave us with very little profit. Offering me drugs for a tip will encourage some, but not me. Additionally, telling me your friend will tattoo your kanji for forty dollars will not entice me to break shop policy. If he said he'd do it for forty dollars, why are you here? Come back when you're done getting tattooed in his kitchen and we'll fix it. You get what you pay for. We're all willing to work with you understanding that in this wallet emptying economy just about everyone is on a budget, but don't ask me for a two hundred dollar tattoo for seventy dollars. I'm not denying you food and shelter here. Tattoos are a luxury.

Some people have high expectations. And I'm right with you on that. "Shoot for the stars," right? Not always.  Some people have completely unrealistic expectations. Here is a real example, abbreviated:

A girl has two dolphins just above her ankle jumping out of the water and towards each other forming a heart like they were going to kiss. The space in between the dolphins leaves me about an inch or so of space. In this inch or so of space, this high-achieving young lady wants: a lotus flower with a flame coming out of it with an ohm symbol above that and her wedding anniversary wedged in somewhere.

"That's not possible," I tell her. "There's not enough space, the tattoo would be incredibly tiny."

"No, you don't understand. It has to go there." Her frustrations speaks like I was foreclosing on her home because she was a week late on her mortgage payment and her family of twenty will be left homeless.

"There is absolutely no way in hell this design is going to fit in this tiny space. What if we put it on your back in between your shoulder blades? That'd be a perfect spot for it."

"No! It can only go there! I don't want it anywhere else!" And the conversation continued on along those same conclusion-less lines. This happens very often.  Some people get it; others do not.

I understand that by having a lot of tattoos, I'm going to get a lot of questions about whether they hurt, how much they cost, how old they are, etc. Fine. Cool. Most of the tattooed people I know are happy to have these discussions until the last rose of summer. Sometimes however, these conversations go awry. Going off on a uninterruptible tangent about your friend in a far away state having a couple of tattoos and then spending a few minutes trying to think of exactly what tattoos he has and describing them to me is rarely interesting. Around the fifteen minute mark, I'm thinking of ways to exit the conversation. This is usually when this person tells me about the twelve ideas he has for a tattoo, half of which are usually planned for the same exact spot on the body and all of which he will never get because he's been talking about his ideas for years and not once taken the first step into getting them completed. I'm going to sleep. Keep talking.

Despite common misconception, the reason most of us won't tattoo you when you're drunk, usually isn't because you might bleed more or because you're so drunk that you might get something you later regret and then sue us. We have release forms for the latter purpose. The reason is primarily because you're so aggravating. You know that little party you're having in your head when you come inside here and start yelling and laughing at your own jokes? Well that party is only in your head. We're all sober and we think you look stupid. Not only that, but getting tattooed when you're drunk usually makes the tattoo hurt more and makes you squirm all around like a goddamn eel making it an almighty pain to tattoo you. Be a man and get tattooed sober.

Oh, believe me how this writing can continue until the paper mills stop producing paper. If you're looking to get tattooed, have an idea ready, come into the shop, talk to an artist, get it done, and listen to his or her aftercare instructions. Leave your egotistical, tough-guy attitude at home. If you pass out, we don't laugh at you (unless you brought your egotistical, tough-guy attitude with you, then it's just schadenfreude). We don't have a problem changing a drawing or moving a stencil, but as is the case with any job, there's a superfluous amount of people that are hard to deal with.

"If you've got a fifty spot, you can buy one," said a friend.

"What's a fifty spot," she asked.

"A twenty dollar bill," I replied sarcastically.

"Really?"

"No, it's a fifty dollar bill."

While we discussed her lengthy career as a stripper, my same friend asked her if they had vegan drinks there for me.

"Oh my God, are you a vegan?"

"No, I'm a vegetarian."

"Oh, thank God, because vegans are so fucked up and crazy."

"Yeah, we're all fucked up and crazy."

Of course, as it so often happens, you think of the best replies minutes later. I could have, should have, and would have told her that she's not really in the position to rely on stereotypes and hearsay to make her judgments. "Wait till you hear what I've heard about strippers…"

Seconds later, I looked at the clock on the shop phone.

"Oh great, only an hour until Sarah Palin embarrasses herself on national TV."

"Who's that? The president lady, right?"

"She's McCain's running mate."

"Oh, yeah I heard some stuff about her."

My friend mentioned he'd be voting for McCain.

The stripper had to open her mouth again.

"Yeah, I'm voting for McCain; he was fucking hot when he was younger."

"That doesn't exactly qualify a person for being President."

She retorted. "Well who are you voting for?"

"The black guy," I told her.

"You're voting for Obama?" I don't know why she was surprised. I could have told her I was voting for Herby Hancock and she still wouldn't know the difference. By this point, she had already disqualified herself from having voting rights, except in the eyes of the people with whom it really matters.

She had to open her mouth again.

"Well if he wins, who's going to pick our cotton?"

"Oh, that's brilliant. So much for the Civil Rights movement. While we're at it, so much for women's liberation. So go cook me some fucking dinner."

"What's that all about?"

"It's all about me being fucking hungry, now go cook my dinner."

As the people around us laughed, I felt bad for her. Then I went through the conversation again in my head and didn't. It's too bad people don't have others call them out on their shit more often.

I don't really care who she votes for. Three nights ago I had a lengthy conversation with a McCain supporter who knew an impressive amount about both candidates and the current economic crisis and I walked away happy having been able to discuss something with someone who had a nuance of brain activity. I didn't care who he supported. He didn't care who I supported.

I guess what I'm saying is, I just want to see some thought process and brain activity.

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I haven't had much to say lately and it scares me. Some, if not most people, believe I always have something to say, but lately, such is not the case. Let me explain:

The older I get, the more trouble I have figuring out who my enemies are. When I was younger, as I am still young, everyone was my enemy. I was confused, unrefined, unlearned. Any threat to my existence, anyone who possessed a power to determine a failure in my life or threaten my way of life was an enemy. Everyone was a threat, an enemy; does that mean insecurity? Probably. But there was always a threat, always a paranoia, always a reason to fight and stay armed.

But as I get older, my enemies become more defined as I become more refined.  The scope is narrowed. Those who would once be victims are now innocent bystanders that I greet with a smile and hold the door for. Now my enemies are more general. I am more, yet not fully, defined as who I am as an individual. I readily know what I like or dislike about a person. Hypocrites (we all are, including myself to an extent, but I mean those with a more political power whose consequences of hypocritical actions and decisions affect multiple peoples' lives). Battles are chosen more prudently and sooner or later, you realize you haven't thrown a punch in years. And something about that is frightening.

It's frightening because if you don't stay strong and able to punch, you can't help but remember that you're vulnerable to threats and unrelenting strive of those who mean to cause harm. The older you get, and hopefully the wiser you become, you realize that fights and trouble need no search team. It's like looking for drunks in a bar. And if you're wise, you won't search for fights, but you will always be ready to throw a punch when necessary. God knows too many motherfuckers are out there begging for it.

It scares me when I have nothing to say. It means laziness, unproductiveness, indecision, and any other words that eventually mean action is not being taken. Lately the only things I have had to say are roughly:

.. - - Getting shot down in a plane in a war does not qualify a person to become president of the United States.

..    - If you're 5' 6", 115 pounds, and look like Neil Patrick Harris with a South Park shirt on, you have no business coming into a tattoo shop telling me about your gang initiation this weekend as a precursor to asking me how much your gang's insignia (or whatever you call it; I never pathetic enough to join a gang) would cost as a whole back piece.

.. - - You don't eat your cat because it's a cultural value, not because your cute. It's not my place to tell you not to eat meat, but don't fucking bullshit me. You think cows are cute too, but not when someone changes its name to food and puts it on a plate.

.. - - Every shirt I wear is stained by noon and I never bother changing it…or for that matter, wiping off the fresh soon-to-be-stain.

.. - - I've got the feeling Christ isn't coming back. And if you think he is that isn't the reason to "look busy."

In my disparity to find something to say, something with value beyond the shortness of "water with extra lemon," I scavenge every story I can find, every true life experience, and beg to tell the world without being misleading, even if it means calling a friend to get the words of last month's experience accurately. Certain weeks at the shop arise throughout the year that seem to thrust more stories than you can fit into a casual conversation. This week, it's been the drunk wife of a drunk man asking to see my dick while I tattooed her in the backroom no matter how much I pleaded that "No, I won't show you; let's finish this tattoo." Then it's Mike's fist fight. The first I've seen in years, with a drunk on a bike outside late at night. He pleaded for the guy to leave, but Mike's wise, knowing that once a man has made up his mind to fight, it's hit now or get your ass kicked. Tonight, after acknowledging the weirdness of the week, I correctly predicted a drunk guy faceplanting it outside the bar, and only two hours before it happened!

These stories are great to tell hanging out. I also believe that these stories are great to write about, but it pains me if it's the only thing I'm writing about. Certainly, these stories will tire anyone after a given point. Oh, another crazy acted completely fucking senile at the shop again. What's new?

At the end of the day, if I haven't productively used my hands and mind, I feel wasted and I feel like I ignored the immense amount of possibilities available. Just as I despise the people who say their town is boring and has nothing to offer (which is true to extent considering Port Saint Lucie vs. Richmond, VA), I despise when I have not taken advantage of what I know is there as long as I seek it.

It's easy to stay one step ahead, to take advantage of the lazy people that surround you on the sidewalks, in line at the Chinese restaurants, and convenience stores. They make it easy to succeed. They're practically handing over the win to you by going home every night and forgetting life by boozing it up and watching television only to burn calories the next day discussing it. And that's their only exercise. Well, that and their constantly rain-checked plans to begin a longer than 3 month plan to diet and exercise.

If I go a week without reading or watching the news, without reading informational literature, without reading fictional literature, without informing my mind of what's going on and keeping it ready, I know it's been a wasted week. When I drink every night throughout the week, I know I've wasted a shitload of money and destroyed brain cells and muscle mass. And while a quality, strong, stomach warming whiskey always hits the spot, it's not always the cure. And it pisses me off knowing that so many shitheads are walking around getting all hoity-toity thinking that "Hey, man, we're going to get drunk (probably with some bullshit Bud Light) and let loose.  And it sounds cool because all of the beer commercials make it seem like it's your due after a "hard week of work" or studying to get drunk. Because it's the thing to do. Because, Hey, you're such a hard worker, why not get fucking wasted. It's so cool! And it's not just the commercials. Hey, let loose, forget the news and life, lay on the beach and get sun burnt, listen to some Sumblime and mellow out, bros'! Yeah? Not for me. Fuck off.

Throughout the years, my opinions on politics and religion have relatively stayed the same, but have become more refined. I've realized the importance of keeping your body and mind sharp while feeling any minor repercussion of ignoring the desire. And still, the only thing I can be sure of, is that there is a lot of lazy, undetermined, pessimistic, uncreative, passive, complaining, whiney motherfuckers and I want no business in surrounding myself within a thousand miles of them. Whether I die tonight, tomorrow, in ten years, or eighty, it's going to happen and I need to take care of a bunch shit before then and they're not helping. It's T.C.B. without the drugs and toilet.

Nothing to say, but a reason to fight.

This is the first paragraph of a nonfiction story I am writing that will be published later this year in a book by a small press company in Texas. The story will be between 9 and 10 thousand words and it is about the transition from office life to the tattoo industry. I'm limiting the details to that because things do not always work out. The place could burn down, I could get shot in the face, or something much less dramatic may occur that causes what I have been working on to not get published. If every seed that had been planted in my past grew to a full blossoming flower, I'd be an egotistical son of a bitch. Luckily, that has not happened.

In my late teens I was over-analytical.  Too analytical to date. Too analytical to fuck. Though I'm sure that trait is still dormant inside of me within occasional uprisings when my brains fails to immediately understand something it views as a threat or pertinent for survival, I have for the most part abandoned being over-analytical for the sake of immediate action. There comes a time when you must stop thinking and act and it took me many years to realize that.  Although I have for the most part abandoned philosophy for the sake of action, its lessons in all areas of the field have laid a solid framework for my character, actions, and judgments today. Despite that, I am still ruled by instincts and primitive desires that cannot always be overcome by the societal pressures to be a model civilized human being. In which case, I am still very human...:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />