Pinch Me

Okay, my life has been so suffused with rawk lately, I can’t possibly cover it in a single entry. Also, as you may have gleaned from my subtle hints, I was kind of blasted out of my mind on Friday, thanks to the joy of cupcakes and Bawls. (Later that night, there was peer pressure and hard liquor. But that’s a different story.)

So, what I’ve decided to do is tackle all the awesome my life has been recently in a jumbly, Tarantino-esque way, recollected out of order. And why am I doing it this way? Because I got a new tattoo! And this pervert took pictures!

Tracey explained awhile back that she was sort of on the jazz about a Headstones tattoo. For those not in the know: The Headstones are a “band” fronted by irascible showman and part-time actor Hugh Dillon. Oh, haven’t heard of Hugh Dillon? It’s because he’s Canadian.

“So, a Headstones tattoo, huh?” I responded.

“Yeah, I know, isn’t it awesome?”

“Tracey,” I said. “Tattoos of Canadian bands are stupid.”

“And what are you getting?”

“Barenaked Ladies, of course!”

Our orignal concepts. Canadian bands. Wow.

* * *

Tracey was weirdly confident as we strode into Chameleon yesterday afternoon (getting there at noon, right when they open. Because we’re those people.) Kelly the Wonder Tattooist was there, looking all portly and rockabilly with his jet black hair shot through with a bright red streak. Have I mentioned my weird and perhaps financially unhealthy crush on my tattooist?

I showed him my BNL design (handing over another concert T-shirt. It’s been long-accepted that I’m a total dork. This was underlined by him saying, “Well, I have to say that your Star Trek communicator is the absolute nerdiest tattoo I’ve ever done.” He and Tracey cracked up a little as I seethed.) and he studied it a little. “I want it to sort of compliment the Springsteen one on my other arm,” I explained. “What do you think?”

The initial idea to leave the outer oval white was discarded almost at once. “With lines that close together, they’re going to bleed in. Besides, if we make the oval black, it’ll better match the Springsteen one.”

...which is totally true

I conceded at once, wincing only a little thinking of the extra pain all that filling in was going to cause me.

As he prepared his room, Tracey – who had been prepared to go to a different tattooist for today’s stuff – turned to me and whispered, “Kelly seems nice today. I think I will go with him.”

Now, some quick backstory: the last time Tracey and I went to Kelly together, I was getting my interobang and she was getting her back-of-the-neck star. As you might remember, as Kelly put the design on her neck and asked her if she was ready, Tracey flipped out and jerked forward, screaming, “No!!! I want the star tilted!”

Since then, Tracey has complained that Kelly was “super mean” to her that day. Since she’s gone off on her tear, I’ve been wondering about it. Yes, Kelly’s a terrific artist, but am I forgiving a pissy attitude because I’ve got a boner for him? I decided I needed backup. (No, not Veronica Mars’s dog.)

I have a co-worker named Tami who took my advice and went to Kelly and raved about him. She also brought her girlfriend to him for her first tattoo, and when I asked about it, she said Kelly was very accommodating and gentle about the whole thing. On Friday, I called Tracey.

“You know, I think your whole Kelly meanness thing is in your head.”

“He’s nice to you because you fawn over him,” she said. Then, very definitively, she said, “I think he just doesn’t like girls.”

So I explained the whole Tami and her girlfriend story, underlining it all at the end by saying, “Maybe, just maybe, the problem is you.”

“Yeah, whatevs,” she responded. I thought it was a compelling argument.

So today, when she’s made her decision to go to Kelly for her tattoo after all, I looked at her askance. She sighed. “Well, if I’m going to get important ink, I should probably go with someone I know does a good job.”

I raised my eyebrows. “And?”

She mumbled something. I asked her to clarify. Huffily, she said, “Okay, maybe he was mean to me because I freaked out and jerked my head away right as he was about to tattoo my neck. Happy?”

“Oh, quite!”

* * *

It’s funny – “funny” is the word we’re using here – how three years makes you forget how unbelievably fucking painful getting a tattoo on your inner arm is. Holy mother of Christ!

Kev in bearable, hilarious pain!

Weird, though, how the pain ebbs and flows. He started off and it was like woodchucks with razor teeth were making their way through my flesh. Tracey was right there with the supportive shoulder-rubs and the taking of pictures, but literally there was a few minutes where I thought I’d go blind from the pain.

Everything is un! Everything is unFIN!

Then it … it doesn’t go away, but there’s a euphoria that comes in after awhile. Maybe it’s an internal coping mechanism or maybe it’s just something we do consciously to make us handle agony better. I’m not sure. I’ve done masochism in the past and it’s almost the same thing, but not quite. Here, it’s like something is being created out of pain, and it hurts but it’s awesome at the same time. Explaining it fails because I’m not sure I have the vocabulary for it. Either that, or there aren’t words for it. It’s like trying to tell me the difference between certain shades of blues and greens. It’s like trying to tell a stranger about rock and roll.

I guess it's over now, cause I've never seen so much, never seen so much, never seen so much blood!

Eventually, Shawn showed up and showed massive indifference to my hurty time. He waited in the lobby, sipping soda (right next to the NO FOOD OR DRINK sign, mind you) and leafing through his Avengers comics. That’s my sweetie.

That's my sweetie!

Meanwhile, Kelly’s finishing me up, and the euphoria seems to be fading. Also fading is the weird erotic component that comes with being tattooed. It’s almost the same charge I get from Rocky or improv or massages, but again, not quite. Getting inked is entirely its own entity. The singular nature of it is why I keep going back, time and again.

* * *

Ink and ring

After I got bandaged, Kelly took a look at the Headstones sketches Shawn made for Tracey, as well as the Headstones ring she hasn’t taken off in about three years. (That fact alone was what convinced me that the Headstones idea was an okay one for her. She’s proven that she likes the band – or at least Hugh Dillon – enough to wear a ring for three years straight. So why not permanence?)

"No, I do this for everyone. I'm kind of a hooker!"

Tracey laid back in the chair, so confident and happy. “My wrist tattoo hurt the most,” she said. “No way this could hurt in any way as much as that. It’s on my hip! How hurty could that be?”

Kelly placed the outline down and hesitated. “Don’t talk or giggle,” he said to her. He looked at me. “Don’t make her talk or giggle.” Apparently, we talk and giggle a lot at the inkslingers’ shop.

It was around now that Tracey would have punched a baby to make the pain stop.

“You ready?” he asked her.

“I sure am!”

“Okay.” Then he laid into her skin and I thought she was going to die.

Tracey’s eyes closed at once and she got completely silent, as if someone were murdering kittens and if she spoke, they’d start murdering puppies, as well. She gasped a little. Then a little more. Her eyes opened and there were tears in them. I alternated between taking pictures and holding her hand. Later, she told me that there was a period of a couple of minutes when she was about to say, “You know what? Half a tattoo’s fine. I’ve gotta go.”

The fact that this could either be "big big pain" or "I'm having an orgasm" makes me happy that Tracey never got into hardcore S&M.

Then her euphoria kicked in, and she was able to smile. I shot more pictures, and before twenty minutes was up, she was done.

This is my vaguely-less-in-pain face!

We headed out of the shop, bloody and hurty and on our way to Fall River. “So,” I joked, “what’re you getting for your next one?”

Tracey laughed. “Yeah, I don’t know, and it’s not going to be for awhile yet.”

“Oh.”

She read my tone. “Kevin, you just got one! You got one three weeks ago! You can’t possibly want another one yet!”

Oh, but as I sit here with my bubbly skin and throbbing pain, I actually do. I have an idea, and it’s a good one. And I’ve got a birthday coming up in a few months.

Now: onward!

Kev

Red and Blue

1

Later, I heard that with the wind chill, the Fenway area was down around negative thirty degrees. I had my scarf and gloves, and I’d turned the flaps of my hat up and in so that my ears stayed warmer. Still, negative thirty is negative thirty, and I wasn’t wearing anything under my jeans but my boxer shorts.

I waited for awhile, out there while the wind whipped past me; through me. I waited for awhile and then I went inside. I had a night to begin.

* * *

I bought my tickets to Blue October on a whim. I’d been listening to their album pretty consistently since I bought it, and I’d liked what I heard … but I’m not sure if they’re ever going to be my favorite band. Still, I liked most of the songs I knew, and I had a crush on the lead singer, one Justin Furstenfeld. These alone were reasons enough to want to see them live, but the thing of it is: I never go to concerts unless they’re either (1) Bruce Springsteen or (2) Barenaked Ladies. My whole rule has always been that if I don’t know the majority of the material being played, why would I bother going?

But I bought the tickets anyway, and after giving up my heavy stuff to the bag check ladies, I bought a T-shirt, too. Also on a whim. After my sixty-hour week and some literally horrific news on the phone the night before, I decided my evening would need some whimsy.

My big fear all week about the show was that it was going to be me, and then about five hundred fourteen-year-old girls with cutting issues. As it turned out: nearly every single guy there was a chubby dude with a goatee, and almost every single lady there was the type of chick you’d see at a BNL show. I stepped into Avalon, downing my Red Bull into a surprised grin, and there ran into a sort-of buddy of mine from my karaoke days. His name is Rob (not of the Celt variety), and on his arm was a thin EMT named Kevin who seemed pretty cool. Thus armed with concert buddies, I finished off my Red Bull, tossed the can, and headed toward the stage.

The place was so packed that I could only make it halfway there. That was all right. I stood by the right side of the stage and waited, jittery. I’m not sure if I can quite explain what was going on with me. It sounds hokey to say that I’ve connected with Blue October’s lyrics … but I actually have. They’re all about living with pain – pain inflicted on you, pain you’ve caused, pain you’re trying to break free from. A lot of the songs deal with owning up to your mistakes, and living with the versions of you that came before the current one. And I’ve been in that headspace for a long, long time. Some might call it morbid self-examination; I call it therapy.

They took in a wash of blue light. Justin Furstenfeld – his hair standing straight up, as if afraid of the thoughts below it – strode to center stage in a long coat and a scarf. I couldn’t tell from my distance if he was wearing his mascara or not. I hoped he was. There’s something about a brazen touch of femininity in the depths of masculinity that can sometimes be utterly charming. Or maybe I just dig the goth thing.

Want to hear something amazing? I didn’t know the first song, or the second one … and it didn’t matter. I was grooving on the audience’s love, and the words I was allowing to sink in. Furstenfeld has this way of moving on stage, interpreting the words with his body, almost like mime but in a far more theatrical way. It’s fascinating.

Then, third song in, he broke into “She’s My Ride Home,” a song I’ve been listening to a lot lately. I sang along with him, and suddenly everything clicked into place. I ceased being a part of the crowd; I was the crowd. And once, he turned to me, and for a moment, even if it wasn’t the truth, I believed he was singing to me:

I’ll be reaching for the stars with you, honey
Who cares, no one else believes…

There I stayed, rooted in my spot, singing along when I knew the words and cheering along when I didn’t. They did “Razorblade.” They did “Into the Ocean.” They did, of course, “Hate Me.” And near the end, Justin drew himself around the microphone stand as if it were the only thing that could keep him warm. And he spoke these words, plainly, with little inflection:

“I want to learn to walk with others as an equal
I want to treat the ones who love me with respect
I want to tell the world I'll give them all a piggyback
And try to take away my negative effect.”

Those words: my words. The ones that have accompanied me to improv every night I’ve walked from the station to the theatre. The ones that follow me to work, from work. The ones that have served to define who I am and what I am to others, and how I see myself and how I deeply with to see myself better.

I knew, going into tonight, that he wouldn’t play my song. Then he did. Those words – spoken, then sung – echoed across Avalon, searing out over the crowd like they were written on my soul.

That could have been my night. That could have been my perfect night. I watched them leave the stage one by one, and in my heart and head I wanted to thank Justin Furstenfeld for understanding who I was, and why I do the stupid things I do sometimes, and why it’s okay to screw up and why it’s even more okay to forgive myself.

This is what I took from this night. It’s sort of rare to have who you are at a precise moment in time defined so clearly. It’s cliché to call rock shows epiphanies, and in this case, maybe it would be a little much to say that’s what it was. But as I headed back out into the cold, I had the distinct feeling that something profound had happened. Something that explained, to a degree, who I was right now. How cool is that?

As I said, that could have been my night. I could have gone home and been happy.

But my night wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. And believe me when I say it only gets better from here.

2
Central Square at just before eleven is desolate. Cars drift by lazily, their headlights poking out meandering paths in the dark. All the shopfronts are underlit; the homeless hunch in doorways for warmth, not even asking for change. The city is closed now, sedate, and the inexorable march of sleep is coming to claim it.

But not me. I’m blasting Blue October in my ears and bounding across the street toward the late-night liquor store. Beckoning me behind glass is a new flavor of Smirnoff Ice, Arctic Blue, and I’m jazzed at the cosmic coincidences of color. Or maybe I’m just high on the night.

Down the road, down past ImprovBoston, and just seeing it sitting there on the corner makes me smile. I’m heading to a party thrown by the people who make me laugh every week, and I can barely contain my excitement.

And another thing: I can’t get this image out of my head:

Hmmm. Hmmm.

* * *

It’s going to be hard to describe the party. For awhile now, everyone’s been hammering it into my head that yes, I’m accepted among the improvisers, and no, I’m not a gigantic circus freak for being the improv geek with the year pass and the hoodie and no acting experience whatsoever. Due to this, I walk into Serpico and Flynn’s with a measure of confidence. Part of this might have to due with the residual concert jollies. Or maybe the anticipation of drinking.

So I won’t go into how awesome it was just to be among those people, and how I’m starting to get to a point where parties are something I can be at and not be in charge of, and how it’s about time that I stop worrying about who’s invited and who’s not and just for the love of Christ enjoy myself. Because enjoy myself I did. It was one of the best nights of my life.

And it’s not even that anything major happened, you know? I heard the beginnings of at least five stories, including one told by Serpico that was interrupted right before he was about to impart some sort of life lesson involving steak. I’m pretty sure this one was put on pause due to the weird, three-legged massage device that glowed and looked terrifically like the little robot guy from Hard Time on Planet Earth. Or maybe this was when Josh decided to paint Serpico’s fingernails a pretty, pretty pink.

Speaking of Josh, a very quick hotness check here: You know how yummy guys always look hotter when they’re wearing gear featured in Kevin Smith movies? Like if they’re wearing the Infinity shirt that Damon wore in Dogma? Yeah, well, apparently this is the new rule. Josh showed up in a Mooby’s uniform shirt and for about ten seconds, I forgot how to think. So yeah.

This is of course not to take away from the foxiness of all the other dudes that were there, of course … but I’ve a feeling people are kind of sick of me dwelling on the physical awesomeness of them. Especially the straight boys. So, uh, sorry straight boys. Thanks for continuing to put up with Kev prurience.

But just: Katie and a guy I didn’t really know dancing to “La Bamba”; Adam playing “Me and Bobby McGee” in Flynn’s bedroom while Jacey and a bunch of other awesome ladies sang along, and Perich slept; Marino talking to me about writing fiction; stealing cagey glances at this guy named Mike (of course) who’s in Katie’s Buffy RPG; and of course Christine Flynn insisting that I do a shot, on top of all the Arctic Blue I’d downed, and the half-beer I’d sipped on the insistence of Brian Bridges. And me, saying Why, SHORE! Because I’m all about limits.

Josh drove me home after, a ride during which I talked in depth with Bobby Smith’s girlfriend – whose name is lost in a drunken haze Claire – about my writing (a subject about which I seem to spew forth the drunker I get). And then I got home and Shawn was waiting up for me, and wanted to hear all about it, and I realized I’d had one of the most perfect nights of my life. And I further realized that I needed to commemorate my night in some way. I wanted to save my memory in a bottle and take sips of it whenever I feel down.

Due to the absence of liquid memory, I had to settle for ink. I think it was a good choice.

Good times happen. And they’ll happen again. I know this because I’ve got friends, I’ve got words, I’ve got music, and I’ve got a symbol to remind me how awesome things can be when things are awesome.

3
In the midst of all the being drunk, I ran the concept of the new tattoo by Shawn, certain that he’d be all freaked and crazy and “OMG your body is a temple,” or something. Shawn’s approval rate for my body art is pretty high, but when he’s against something – the Trek tattoo, the incipient BNL logo – he goes a little psycho.

But what he said was, “Wow, that looks pretty cool.”

“I’m getting it in red,” I explained vehemently.

“Wow, red! Sounds neat!”

The next day, I had trouble getting out of the house, mostly because I was sprawled on my comfy chair with my duck pajama bottoms and my Spider-Man fleece covering me, and Shawn and Jay and I were digging on the VH1 Top 20 Countdown. Outside featured none of these things. My original plan was to leave the house early, get the tattoo first thing, head out to Boston University to see the IB Groaners & Boners show, ricochet around the sun, save some whales, then make it to Lowe’s Boston Common by four. Sadly, what with all the fleece love, I only had time for one of those things. The ink had it.

I strode up the ramp toward Chameleon a tad nervously. This was the very first time I’d been to get a tattoo alone, and the first since my DD where I haven’t had a photographer. I suppose in a way I wanted to be all stealthy about it. The original plan was for Tracey and I to get Canada Band tattoos this weekend (me, Barenaked Ladies; she, the Headstones). But then Tracey caught ill and couldn’t go and I … well, I wanted some ink, dammit! I’m just a man!

Crowding Chameleon with their I’m So Hip attitudes and discussions of getting bumblebee tattoos on the sides of their neck are a gaggle of eighteen-year-olds who annoyed me before I even entered. I spied Kelly, the best inkslinger in all of the Boston Metro Area, leaning over the counter with his head hanging low. I’m guessing he was pretty annoyed with the young’ns, as well.

As I approached, he looked up, smiled slightly, and beckoned me over with a flick of his index. “What’re you looking for?” he asked, and I showed him the design. “I can do that,” he said.

“I want it in red,” I explained.

“I can do that, too.” He thought for a second. “For you, a hundred.”

“Sounds good.”

The lady at the counter looked up, questioning. Kelly laughed. “He’s my favorite geek,” Kelly said, and here I stand, all puffy with pride and … well, let’s just say pride.

“When can we do it?” I asked, meaning exactly what I said and absolutely nothing else, I swear, kthxbye.

“How about right now?” I just want to underline here that I had a, um, inkling of an idea the night before, headed to Harvard Square on a whim, and was now heading in for permanent impulse less than a half hour after leaving my Spidey fleece back at home. I plunked down my money, followed him up to his studio, and moments later, needles were being jabbed into my flesh.

Quick Kev Sensory Moment here: Every time it happens, it’s like the first. The burn. The edge of pain that melts into a weird sort of pleasure. The insistent hand on your shoulder as ink is injected into you. I don’t know how anyone getting a tattoo can see it as anything less than an erotic experience, no matter who’s doing it to you. I just happened to have Kelly, the wonder tattooist. And man was I happy about that.

At one point near the end, he stopped and asked, “Oh, so what’s this tattoo of?”

In my head, screaming, was this voice: It’s for Blue October!? And the lead singer!? LOOKS JUST LIKE YOU!? OH MY GOD ISN’T THAT AWESOME!? HAWT!!!!!! LOLLERCOASTER!

What I said was, “Oh, it’s a band I saw last night. I probably won’t like them in ten years, but it was an awesome concert and I had a great night. I just sort of want to commemorate it, you know?”

“You know,” he said, “I have band tattoos all over me.” My head: ZOMG SHOW ME WHERE!!! Him: “It’s cool if you don’t love the band later on. It’s still a cool design.” You are the coolest guy I’ve ever met EVER MET!!!!

“Cool.”

Fifteen minutes later, I had a bandage on my ink and I was heading away. I called up Shawn immediately.

“So where did you get it?” he asked. “Because I realized when you left that that was the one question I didn’t ask.”

“Um,” I said. “On the back of my neck.”

“Kevin!”

And we’re back.

Howl

Just up front: there won't be a whole lot of me writing in this post. It's Wednesday night, I'm tired, and I'm about written out for the day.

Instead! OMG KEV GOT A WEREWOLF TATTOO!!! I know, RIGHT!?

About a week ago, I went and visted Kelly the Wonder Tattooist over at Chameleon Body Art, in The Garage in Harvard Square. This is the picture I showed him:

OMG WEREWOLFS!

Tonight, I went back with Joe in tow to take pictures, as neither Tracey nor Shawn could get out of work. "I'm not exactly Mr. Technical Genius," he said, fiddling with turning the flash on his camera off before giving it up like a bad habit. I grinned at him.

"No, but you are Mr. Last Minute, so thank you."

Kelly showed me his sketch for my approval, then had me hop up on his chair and it at the most awkward diagonal angle ever. I was afraid all the sitting was going to aggravate my sciatic nerve, but by the time the needles started searing my flesh, I didn't really think about most other pain.

Kelly sears my flesh, and looks foxy doing it.

Joe and I got to talking about tattoos, and the whole nature of them and why people get them. "It's a lot different here than you see on TV."

I laughed and said, "Yeah, this is not Miami Ink." Kelly stopped his needle and pointed up at the window. Written across it in lipstick was this:

This is not Miami Ink.
We don't care why you're getting tattooed.

I literally howled with laughter.

About forty-five minutes into it, the basic outline was done:

Yes, I wore my Chucks to the tattoo place!

After getting up and stretching, I came back to the chair just as the band playing through Kelly's iPod shouted: "I'm gonna pop your kneecap off with a fork like the lid off a pudding snack!"

"Um," I said.

"This is Deadbolt," Kelly explained, grinning. "They're awesome!"

And that's why I come here.

Note Kelly's arm pressing against my sneaker.

Here's the weird thing: It hurt, of course it hurt. It always hurts. But except for some stuff around the edges and some thicker lines that made me wince, it didn't, you know, kill. Only once or twice did my foot reflexively jitter in pain. At once point near the end, the pain got so mundane that I began to get a little bored. (Only a little. I mean, pain never becomes that mundane.)

Halfway there.

About an hour and a half after he started, Kelly told me to stand up. I thought he was telling me to get up and move around before the final stretch, but when I stood, he said, "Man, you're done."

"I what?"

"You're done. As long as it looks good to you."

I checked it out in the mirror and a large smile came across my face. It didn't just looked good. It looked perfect.

"You, my friend, are awesome." I said. And that's how I got lucky #7.

I'm fit to be dyed and I'm fit to aa-oo.

My Flirtation With Obscure Punctuation

Tracey calls me up about a week and a half ago, excited beyond frothing. This was before the whole GarettVerse kerfluffle, so I was confused as to what it could possibly be about.

“So, I was in line last night at the store,” she said, “and I saw this girl with a … a, um, star on the back of her neck. And it looked really sexy, and she was really sexy, and I kind of wondered … I mean, I know it’s silly and girly, but do you think that would make a good tattoo on me?”

And, partially because I thought it would and partially because I like getting my friends to spend money on themselves and partially because I knew she would want me to accompany her to the tattoo studio, I said, “Um, yeah.”

A pause. “Wait, so you don’t think it’s silly to get a star just because a hot girl had one?”

“Not at all! I think it’s a great idea!”

This is, of course, when I started thinking, Hmm. I wonder what random, non-sequitur tattoo I could possibly get. Before my thought was finished, Tracey said, “Hey, you need to get one, too! It’ll be a whole tattoo event!”

And because I, too, fall under the spell of my friends’ whims, I said, “Wow, that sounds even cooler!”

Flash-forward a couple of days, lying in bed with Shawn. I told him about this whole thing, and how I was considering getting a new tattoo myself, even though it’s only been two months since the last one.

“Well, what do you want?” he asked, and I kind of shrugged. Both of my prevailing ideas – the werewolf and the Spider-Man – are both intensely complicated and will not only cost more than I have right now, but are also more than I want right now. My last three tats have been increasingly representative; I was more about the iconic right now.

“I’m kind of leaning toward a movie one,” I said, “because I have the bear one, the music one, the book one, the comic one, and the TV one. Basically, movies are what I have left, but there’s nothing really iconic about, you know, Taxi Driver or Shawshank Redemption.” We discussed Rocky Horror briefly, and though I did think about it a bit, the only real icon of Rocky is the lips, and … well, no.

“Well, I want one,” Shawn said. I sat up.

“Wait, you want to finally get your squid thing?”

He nodded. “Yeah, it’ll be fun.”

My eyes widened. “It’ll be a tattoo event!!!”

I called Tracey Thursday. “You still excited?”

“You have no idea! I’m getting a star! Have you thought any more about what you want?”

I sighed. “Yeah. Maybe something about writing? I don’t know. A pen, maybe?” We bandied these ideas back and forth awhile, until I came to the conclusion that I probably wasn’t getting one. Tracey sounded sad, but resigned.

“But you’re still coming to see me get mine?”

“Of course.”

And that was that.

Until yesterday, at Jason’s.

“So,” he said, “what’re you doing tomorrow?”

“Oh, Tracey and Shawn and I are going to Chameleon. They’re getting tattoos.”

“You’re not?”

“Well, I don’t really know anything I want. I want an icon, or something, but” – and I swear I said this without forethought or consideration – “the only thing I can really think of is the interrobang.”

“The what now?”

“The interrobang. It’s like a question mark and an exclamation point sort of jammed together. Interro-bang.”

“Um.”

“I’ll show you on Wikipedia!”

I gave the idea some time to mull over in my head. It made some sense, actually. It’s writing-related. It’s me related – what could symbolize me better than an exclamation point and a question mark? Plus, it’s unique enough so that most people won’t know it, and stylish enough to that it had the potential to actually look cool.

I woke up this morning and posted my interrobang picture. Tracey called me almost at once. “Yes! Get it! Oh my God, it’s perfect! Where do you want it?”

“Um, the side of my leg, maybe?”

A pause. “Isn’t that a bit girly?”

“No, it looks fine!”

She arrived around eleven. Shawn was delayed in getting his pants on (because he’s Shawn), but after showing Tracey and Jay some sketches of his squid thing, we were heading out the door. I lamented to Tracey that I see my tattoist more often than my dentist. A brief jaunt for snacks and gas, and then off to Harvard Square!

Chameleon hadn’t opened when we got there, so we decided to hang out outside like suburban losers. We’re that guy. Shawn said, “So you’re getting an interrobang?”

He didn’t seem mad or puzzled, just somewhat amused. I nodded and touched the side of my leg. He looked at me. “Isn’t that kind of girly?”

“Shut up, it’s awesome.”

What? This is my flash, what?

Chameleon opened and we approached the front desk. I love the front desk girl, whose name I don’t know but who always treats me with professionalism and kindness, even though she’s a little sarcastic and snarky. She’s the perfect balance.

“You guys are first up today. What’s happening?”

I smiled at her. “We all want Kelly.” I glanced over at him, setting up in his little tattoo cubicle. But not as much as I do, I thought.

“All right, show me your designs and IDs, we’ll get you set up!”

After a bit of a wait (and I was heartened and mystified that the first song we heard playing over Chameleon's loudspeakers was "Screenwriter's Blues," by Soul Coughing, which has kind of a special connection with me), Tracey got evaluated and then went in. The tattooing had begun.

Our psychobilly tattooist

At first Tracey was quite nervous, standing stock-still as Kelly placed the design on her neck. "Straight up and down?" he asked, and she flipped out.

"No!" she screamed, taking a step forward. Then she turned, as if it were all normal, and said, "No, just a little bit askew."

Kelly looked at her. "Um, okay." Later on, Tracey and I decided he was thinking, Jesus, another white chick with another star tattoo on another neck. Can my day get any BETTER?!

Tracey, before the freakout.

He sat Tracey down, and I paid close attention to her, as her breathing had gotten more rapid (which meant a pronounced heaving of the breasts, actually.) I was afraid more freaking out would happen once Kelly touched the needles to her, but a curious thing happened there: she calmed down. Later, she explained that the switch-over from pain to pleasure had taken mere seconds. It was kind of cool to watch her go from Ow, it's gonna hurt, OW IT'S GONNA HURT to, Oh. Well, isn't that cool?

Tracey, you're a star!

She was over in, swear to God, fifteen minutes. I thought about my Springsteen tattoo and my Star Trek tattoo, and cursed her silently. Grumblegrumble, I have to sit in the chair for like an hour and Tracey gets hers licked on by kittens grumble grumble... But I digress. Time for Shawn!

The best part of the whole day is when Kelly called Shawn in. I stood up, camera at the ready, and Shawn spun and said, "Um, I think I only want Tracey here for this. Okay, bye." And the door closed. I just sat down, looking at Kelly's door, thinking, Um, guess I should have brought a book? I guess?

Kelly stabs Shawn. Repeatedly.

He told me later that he didn't want me being there to either freak him out, as I am apparently prone to exuberence. Allegedly. This would have, he explained, unnerved him. It was fine. I headed over to Newbury Comics and bought myself a magazine I didn't really want to busy myself, and by the time I came back, Shawn was apparently ready for me.

Shawn in progress.

I stepped into the room and watched him awhile. Kelly allowed me to maneuver around the room with the camera, provided I didn't get in his way. I think it would probably be presumptuous to say that Kelly likes me, but I think he recognizes that I am not only a regular who brings him my business, but I also bring in other people. This means that Bill has to get his Greek symbol soon, and Jason should get his phi, and everyone should get inked forever and ever, because it's AWESOME YOU GUYS SERIOUSLY!

I am having an awesome time.

When Shawn was finished, he pulled me aside. "I didn't mean to send you out of the room like that. I kind of didn't want you to see if I started crying. You're fine."

I was going to kiss him but didn't. Which is always the most annoying part of life, you know? Anyway, his tattoo - which is something he can explain far better than I can, as it has something to do with a Macadonian vase - came out looking exactly like his sketches, and we were all quite impressed by it.

Squiddish.

After cleaning up, Kelly stepped up to the counter and called me over. "Okay, so you want the interrobang." (It kind of stunned me that more people knew about the interrobang - which I only heard about four years ago from Eggwards at TBRU - than I had anticipated.) "Where do you want it?"

I pointed to the side of my leg and said, "Well, I was thinking about here. A little further up from my ankle?"

Kelly looked at me. "Well, it's fine if you get it there. It's your decision. But I just need to warn you. It might look a little bit ... girly."

I looked at Tracey. I looked at Shawn. Tracey said, "We win!"

I sighed. "So where do you think it'll look best?"

Kelly indicated a spot lower down my leg, where it tapers down just above my foot. "The way your leg is shaped, it's sort of like a triangle. And the shape of the tattoo tapers like that, too. I think it'd look cool there." I agreed and we were about to go in when he said, "So, that bear claw. Did you want it shaded like that, or is that shading a mistake?"

"I mean, if you're going for girly..."

I rolled my eyes. "A mistake. It was my first one, and she was a scratcher."

"I'll fill it in for you," Kelly said. "No charge."

I goggled at him. "Really?"

"Yeah, you bring me business, plus you're a regular. Regulars get preferential treatment."

"So awesome!"

We entered Kelly's cubicle and he told me to lie down on his vinyl chair on my belly. I clambered up and muttered, "Shut up, Tracey."

Sprawly.

He put my leg up on a stand which was certainly not meant for the bony fronts of lower legs. For awhile, it wasn't so bad. We talked about the increasing dorkiness of my tattoos.

"I don't think you can get any dorkier than an interrobang," Tracey said.

"Oh, I don't know. My next one could be commemorating stamp collecting."

Kelly said, "Philately forever!" A pause. "I just really wanted to use that word in a sentence."

"I could tell people I'm really into FDR, and I want to be just like him."

"You know," Kelly said, "I know people who could hobble you. Or, if you'd prefer, I know some folks who could inject you with polio. It'd mean calling in favors that I never thought I'd need of course..."

I love Kelly.

Sleeping in the needles.

Sadly, after awhile, it became apparent that while the tattoo itself was hurting like a mother ... it was the stand that was cutting into my leg. For the first time since Kelly became my tattooist, I asked him to stop for a second so I could move it. I feared for a second that he'd call me out for being a total wuss, but all he did was put some paper towels down to cushion me and went back to work.

Fixing my claw. Rire.

Thankfully, this time, my time was relatively short, as well. I'm going to say that with the interobang and the bear claw - which Tracey said he not only filled in, but re-outlined and neatened - it took me all of twenty-five minutes. This is a good thing, because the next one's going to take about three sessions. Fucking werewolves.

After I turned around and surveyed my tattoo (in a maneuver that later had Jay calling me a "fancy dancer"; awesome), Kelly stuck out his hand and thanked me. That was a first. I handed him his tip and we were out, out, on the way toward Texas Roadhouse: in pain, scarred for life, and happy as hell with how we spent our morning. I know I say it all the time, but boy howdy, sometimes I just love my life.

Kev

Boldly Going

I’ve gotten my body marked permanently four times in the past, and each time has been preceded by considerable thought. The bear claw on my calf was as much a symbol of my newfound freedom (George never wanted me to get tattoos) and my discovery of Shawn at a bear meeting as much as my love of bears itself. I’d been thinking about the bear claw for a long, long time. Then came the Stephen King one, which I’d, of course, been considering for over a decade. Daredevil was more recent, decided over Spider-Man as symbolic as the type of superhero I would be if I really were a superhero. And Springsteen? Well, we all knew I was going to get a Springsteen tat at some point, it was just a matter of what.

So when I came upon the idea of the Star Trek one, it sort of surprised me. I knew what I wanted, I had a pretty good idea where I wanted it (changed from the chest to the arm because even I’m not that big a geek), and I just sort of ... did it. None of the pomp and circumstance that has come with getting all my others, none of the greater symbolic import. I didn’t really build it up in my mind, is what I’m saying. I said, “Hey, this’ll be neat,” I printed out some designs, and then early this morning, I just went ahead and did it.

Rob picked me up a little before eleven and we headed out to Chameleon in Harvard Square. Their website says they open at 11:00 on Saturdays, but their website lies like a high school girl the morning after prom. Rob and I, upon encountering the closed door, headed down for some Starbucks and Dunkin’ Donuts (Rob’s breakfast: an egg sandwich; mine: a cupcake. Jesus.), then back up to wait for all the inking. When the door opened, I stepped in and requested the guy I had last time, a punker-boy marvel named Kelly, who inked my Springsteen and thought it was neat.

The girl at the counter looked at my printout and smiled. “Oh! I spoke with you yesterday, didn’t I?”

I blushed a little. “Um, yeah. I’m the world’s biggest geek.”

She pointed to my shirt, the one that said geek across the front. “And you’re advertising now!”

Then Kelly came out and looked at it. “You know,” he said, “I’ve been tattooing a long, long time, and I’ve never done one of these. You are certainly unique.”

“I wasn’t sure about coloring it,” I said hesitantly. “I was thinking maybe just an outline.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure? We could maybe do some fun stuff with coloring here.”

“Well, can you make it look metallic?”

He glanced at the reception girl. “Can I make it look metallic?”

“You do whatever you want,” I told him. “I trust you completely.”

The fortunate thing about Kelly is that he’s really talented. I say this is fortunate because I have been known, on very rare occasions, to be swayed by ludicrously attractive men who haven’t a whole lot going for them other than that they’re sexy. I mean, once or twice. I’m only human.

Kelly did some sketching in the back and then brought it out to me. I’d been a little nervous up to this point, given Shawn’s sort of negative stance on the whole Trek tat idea (his exact words were, “Oh my God, don’t do it.” This is awhile before I was heading out the door, when he amended it to, “Whatever you want to do, I’m behind you a hundred percent. I was just sort of testing your mettle.” My boyfriend is ... sometimes a bit of a challenge. But so lovable.)

Then Kelly called me in, had me strip off my shirt, leaned over me, and asked, “You ready?”

No hesitation: “Let’s go.”

At first, I felt a little nervous. Searing, constant pain does that. In a way, it's the opposite of pregnancy. You remember the pain, but you forget the endorphin rush that comes midway through.

The thing is, the shoulder is like the least painful part to get tattooed (the most, at least in my experience, is the inner arm. Seriously. Though I've never done my testicles.) Rob watched from the doorway, snapping pictures, seeming to be a little amazed at how well I was taking it. Making everything even better: Kelly resting his big, meaty arm on mine. Damn, that man is sexy.

At one point, midway through, I was for some reason moved to apologize to him for the utter geekitude of the tattoo. Kelly grinned a little. "Please, man. When tourist season begins, it's going to be fuckin' Celtic butterflies and shamrocks for three months. They're gonna line up outside the doors, chanting, 'Sham-rock, sham-rock!' The fact that this is a change allows me to have a little bit of fun with it." Um, wow. Okay! Thanks, Kelly!

Forty-five minutes into it, my outline was done. Already it looked better than I'd anticipated. It helps to have a tattoist with an art degree. The best thing is that he also has a photography degree, so he knows what light makes the best natural light, which means he's going to put the best olor possible on my arm. I love getting tattoos far too much. And I'm kind of a bleeder.

Rob dashed off to put money in the meter, which didn't take all that long, especially considering that we both thought that the coloring process was going to take a lot longer. "I get guys in here who want Cadillacs tattooed on their backs," Kelly explained to me, as he layered blue and white on. "So I've worked with stuff that looks like chrome. It's really not all that hard." I'd never seen white ink before - or, for that matter, blue or yellow. I was afraid that the yellow was going to make me look jaundiced.

Instead, it actually looked amazing. When I conceived of this idea, I was kind of accepting the fact that it was not only going to be super geeky, but also kind of silly-looking. Somehow, in spite of the sheer nerditude, Kelly made it look actually pretty dang cool. And I will forever be grateful to him for that.

So, that's five now. One each representing love, books, comics, music, and TV. Iconography is my body's geography. I wonder what's going to be next.

Kev

We Can Make It If We Run

“Okay, lie back,” the big man said. I marveled at his belly, his massive arms, his rockabilly sideburns. My knuckles brushed against his nipples through the fabric of his shirt. His name was Kelly and he smiled a bit as he pulled on rubber gloves and pinned my arm down. “This is gonna hurt. If it doesn’t hurt, I’m not doing it right.”

I lay back, trying to relax. From the doorway, Shawn grinned and readied the camera.

“You ready?” Kelly asked. I nodded.

This is how I got tattoo number four.

For a very long time, I’d been trying to figure out how to represent Bruce Springsteen in iconic form. I couldn’t do a “celebrity face” tattoo, because those are invariably creepy. None of the albums really has a simple sketch-design, with the possible exception of The Ghost of Tom Joad, and that image didn’t really lend itself to the tattoo process. Eventually, though, I started paying attention to that little symbol that the Springsteen fanzine Backstreets puts at the end of all its articles, the little pictogram of the sneakers. That seemed iconic, a little bit, plus it would tie in (ha) with my whole love of Chuck Taylors. I began to do research.

The image was originally taken from a promotional one-sheet advertising the upcoming album Born to Run. I found it on the Internet here:

And here’s a close-up of the sneakers dangling from his guitar:

At work, I printed out both the photograph and the pictogram, and early this morning, Shawn and I headed down the street to Mongo’s Tattoo Madness, where I’d made an appointment for noon.

I got there at 11:58. One of the artists was sitting out on the bench outside, a pale, gaunt-looking man with faded tats running up and down his arms. “I’m just waiting for someone to come by with the keys,” he said. I shrugged. Five minutes passed by. He asked to look at my papers and I showed him. He kept insisting that I make the tat bigger, then he was quiet again. Another artist – also without keys – showed up and they began to smoke. Five more minutes passed by. I don’t think I’ve heard the word “fuckin’” more times in my life than in the five minutes these two gents shared a conversation. Shawn arrived with the camera and his sketchbook. Five more minutes passed by, and now it was 12:20, and I was already supposed to have my tattoo by now. I muttered to Shawn, “You wanna just go?” He nodded vigorously. The skeeve factor had reached its peak.

“What do you want to do?” he asked as we climbed back into our borrowed car. “Do you still want your tattoo?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I really do. Maybe at the house we could call Chameleon. They might have an opening.”

I called the instant I got in the door, and the jovial girl on the other end cheered me up immensely. “Sure, Saturdays are walk-ins. Come on down!” Thrilled, Shawn and I packed ourselves into the car and hurried over to Harvard Square. On our way to Chameleon from the parking space we finagled, a woman was giving out free cans of Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper. I saw this as the best possible omen.

Inside, I spoke to the jovial girl again, and she indicated that, while there may be a bit of a wait, I could totally go in with Kelly today. I looked around. Kelly’s door was open, and he was hunched over a beefy guy with a goatee. Kelly himself was hefty, with thick black hair standing up in a point. Tattoos covered his bare arms. Yes. Kelly would do.

Kelly took one look at the printout and explained that there was no way it was going to work. “The lines are too thin,” he said. “The detail work might look great today, but in a year or two, it’ll be all eaten up by the flesh. Let me see what I can work with.”

He took both the photo and my printout into the studio-room and did some work. Fifteen minutes later, he called for me.

It looked fantastic. He’d made the laces wider and more visible, and the circle around them thinner. It wasn’t an exact replica of the pictogram ... but I daresay it was far superior for the use it was being put to. This was going to be my tattoo. Wow.

I lay my arm down on the slab and looked at it. It was the last time ever my arm was going to be bare:

He started by applying the sketch to my forearm:

Shawn, who has apparently never used a camera before, decided that cinema verite was the way to go today. Ah well.

Kelly asked me if I was ready, and I said yeah. Then, all at once, the excruciating agony of ink being needled into my skin set my arm afire. Why do I enjoy this again?

Midway through, Shawn went to go fill the parking meter, and when he came back, the pain had either subsided or I had just gotten used to it being my whole world.

We listened to the Stray Cats as the filling-in began, which is strangely not as painful as the outline. Kelly explained that it’s because the needles are spread out over a wider area. Even so, lesser pain is relative. The closer it got to the soft, fleshy bend of my arm, the glassier and more electric the agony was.

Seriously, why do I like this?

He gave us the care instructions, and bade us well. Shawn indicated that he’d be back the next weekend with his new tattoo idea, and that he’d ask for Kelly. Kelly’s our new best friend.

When we got home, I took a painfully hot shower and used castile soap on my new tat (The Castiles were one of Springsteen’s first bands. Oh yeah. It’s symbolism day in tattoo land.) When I stepped out, I let it air dry and took one more picture. The finished product looked far better than anyone had anticipated:

And that is how I got my fourth tattoo. Yey fun happy times!

Now, where can I fit Spider-Man...?

Kev

Man Without Fear

Two birthdays ago, when we all gathered around a table heaped with plates of steaming Indian food, my friend Dave handed me a graphic novel entitled Born Again, a highlight, he said, in the Daredevil story. I was going through a Spider-Man Renaissance at the time; the movie had come out and I was just starting to get into comics again. Dave, a comic book fan from way back, had given me some Spidey stuff ... but he thought that Born Again would particularly intrigue me. And, I thought, it might. I'd heard the movie was coming out, and if I was gonna start getting into comics, why not? I shrugged and said I'd give it a try.

Later that summer, Shawn, Tracey and I went on a road trip to Ohio to go to Cedar Point (conning Tracey to go only because we were going to hit Canada on the way back ... making this the first time we got Tracey to go to an amusement park due to a Canadian connection.) On the way back from Cedar Point, I crouched in the back seat with a tiny flashlight, wanting to read something but not knowing what. The first thing my hands came in contact with in my backpack was Born Again. I shrugged. Better than nothing.

At once, I was entranced. Frank Miller's writing, David Mazuchelli's art: it was all so dark. So enthralling. So ... so perfect.

When I got back home, I plumbed the comic book store for everything Daredevil. Kevin Smith, director of Dogma and hottie extraordinaire, had written what was considered a reboot. Bought it. Read it. Loved it. And as it turned out, the guy who wrote my favorite comic book (Ultimate Spider-Man), Brian Michael Bendis, actually was the current writer on Daredevil, as well. Carefully, I went back through his whole backstock, picking up graphic novels one a week and falling under the thrall of this entirely new brand of storytelling: the superhero noir. (And no, it's not so new. Batman's been doing it for years, and lots of Golden Age heroes were big on gangsters and heroics, as well.) What entranced me the most, though, was Matt Murdock, aka Daredevil, the Man Without Fear.

That subtitle: The Man Without Fear; it might have started off as descriptive, but it's become ironic, in a way. Since Born Again, since Kingpin stated that a man without hope is a man without fear ... Matt's been on this personal journey of discovery, of hope. I might enjoy Spider-Man more, but it's Matt Murdock I identify with. Conflicted, religious, obsessed with his past, bordering on multiple personality disorder and suffering a breakdown everyone else but him is aware of. All through this, he searches for the best in himself as well as the world. He is damaged purity, the best kind of hero to root for. The only kind of hero to be.

When it came down to deciding on my third tattoo, the obvious choice would be something Spider-Man related. Look around my house. Spidey posters. Spidey figures. Spidey everything. But it would never do to be obvious. The obvious Stephen King tattoo would be something from It, my favorite novel. The Stand is in the top ten, but somewhere closer to the bottom. However, that icon from the front cover: good vs. evil. I mean, that's me. That's my inner conflict, every day, all the time. The internal struggle of good versus evil is so constant, so eternal, that the pictogram from The Stand only made sense. Same with Daredevil. Sure, Spidey's my hero; sure, I want to be Spider-Man in the worst possible way. But in a lot of ways, I am Daredevil. The Man Without Fear? Hardly. But a man who faces the fear and does it anyway. The only kind of man to be.

Thom came with me to Chameleon. We sat in the waiting room, the high dentist-drill whine of inking jets crowding the air. The speakers above played Manfred Mann's "Blinded By the Light," a song written by Bruce Springsteen. I took this as a good sign. When you're me, omens - both good and bad - are everywhere. The good quotient kicked up a notch when "Who Made Who" - the AC/DC anthem from Stephen King's Maximum Overdrive - followed "Blinded." The fear of anticipated pain was dissipating. The excitement was building. And then I was up.

You always forget how much it hurts. Bob, my friendly and talkative biker-type tattoo artist, laughed when I said I should be used to this by now. "Man, you never get used to it," he said. "You just kinda forget."

That is, until the outline begins. The lower part of the bottom D didn't hurt so much. Bob kept me distracted by talking
comics. As his needle moved up, the pain quotient did, too. Now it was a maddening itch. Now it was a bee sting. Now it was ... well, a needle digging tiny cuts in my flesh. The closer he got to the top of my shoulder, the more it hurt; pain seared through me like a virus. Yet still, somehow, I maintained cool. As he began to recopy the outline, I asked him if he was disappointed that tattooing had gone mainstream. He shook his head after awhile and said, "You know, man. It's not an underground thing anymore, and in a lot of ways that's cool. We got a lot more research money that gets thrown at the industry now. This means we get better equipment, better pigments, better everything, all the time. So it's not so bad." For every con, there's a pro. I loved Bob.

The thing you never believe until it happens is that the coloring-in process is so much less painful than the outline. I don't know how it's possible, but it's true. Coloring takes up so much more skin-space, but it hurts at least half as much. I watched him do this part, filling it in, wiping the ink and the blood away, filling it in more. It was fascinating to see: where formally only my pale Irish skin proliferated, now there was an icon of black and red. Before I knew it, my tattoo was done. For the third time in my life, I was inked.

Rob had shown up at some point during the process and snapped a few photos. After I tipped Bob, we bundled into his car and headed on home. Two hours later, I removed the bandage and looked down at my skin: something new there, something fresh. Something formally plain now made art.

In my own small, painful way, I had been born again.

Kev