I Resisted the Urge to Get a Tattoo of a Dragon Eating My Nipple
For better or for worse, I went with something more sensible
Tattoos. What does it say about our species that we learned how to permanently etch memorials to bad decisions into our skin eons before we figured out the internal combustion engine, how to clone sheep, or how to beat Super Mario Brothers 3?
“It appears through this ancient cave painting of a Cro-Magnon police report she struck the fatal blow mere seconds after discovering that the male had a tattoo of another woman on his left ass-cheek.”
Still, despite their checkered past of impulsive idiocy, I have always wanted a tattoo. It is a similar feeling to wanting a boat.
“Why do you want a boat?”
“You ever drive past a marina? Look how may boats there are! Practically everyone has a boat. I figure I should get in on that.”
“What are you going to do with a boat?”
“Well, once or twice a year I’ll take it out, get dehydrated and sunburnt while floating. The rest of the year I’ll just pay a ton of money to have someone maintain/store it for me.”
“Can’t you just do all that in a pool? Why do you need a boat?”
“To throw your body overboard after I wallop your nosy little ass with the anchor.”
But I digress.
By the age of 18, I was convinced that having a tattoo was another milestone on the road to unbridled success, along with a sweet car, a sweet stereo, and lots of Compact Discs. I had the car (’97 Camaro), the stereo (Onkyo, Polk, etc), and hundreds of music storage items that would soon be obsolete. Only one thing remained…
However, in a rare — for the time period — flash of self-awareness, I realized that I was not mature enough to commit to a lifetime of ill-conceived body art. I could handle the commitment of a 5-year car loan, but a lifetime was a bridge too far.
That’s not to say I didn’t try to conjure a nifty design. Deep reflection on the matter revealed several core issues with my first idea: a panoramic shot of the red Teletubby doing a flip off a large dune in the deserts of southern Tunisia. To start, I am a not a large person. In order to get the shoulder-to-shoulder span of the desert, plus the size of the dune, the Teletubby and his/her dune buggy would have to be pretty small.
So small, in fact, that someone would have to be 5 feet or less away from me to see that it was the red tubby. If someone can’t tell which PBS character I had permanently etched into my acne-covered back from at least 10 yards, what are we even doing here?
The second candidate to steam its way down the Bad Idea Railroad met its demise for more practical reasons. I had become enamored with dragons, possibly thanks to the logo of the ramen brand I favored, since it was still decades before the dragons of How to Train Your Dragon would nestle their way into our hearts. Immediately, getting a sweet dragon tattoo became the tattoo priority. Having learned my lesson from before, I started with a plan that was a little more reserved: a large, polychromatic dragon emerging from my front waistband, lavishly looking to snarf down my left nipple. Once again, a dearth of real estate became an issue. Plus, the level of detail I demanded would quickly exceed my budget — $5 — for the project.
It would take 20+ years before I came up with something that was meaningful, sensible, and wouldn’t scare anyone (unless they had an irrational fear of Greek architecture). In the interim, the closest I came was a piece featuring Donald Duck getting arrested for indecent exposure. Put down the booze and put on some pants, Duck. Per usual, Google helpfully gave me a list of local shops. I immediately slotted the shop with several misspelled words in its name. Even though I wasn’t getting any words done, well… you know… optics.
All the portfolios of the various artists featured some mix of the macabre, impossibly proportioned women in various states of undress, or some random design with spider webs (“A rose with a spider web? Bravo! A spider web with a spider web? C’est magnifique!”). This was going to have to be a B.Y.O.I. (Bring Your Own Image) endeavor. Once again, Google to the rescue. In .03 seconds, the search engine proudly returned over 130 million hits.
The website of the place I settled on advertised that they accepted walk-ins. However, when I arrived to walk in, I was told that walk-ins are by appointment only. Flummoxed, I almost gained respect for the purveyors and made an appointment to walk in a few hours later. Being a very hot day, my car lodged its displeasure over the additional workload my turning on the “check engine” light.
When I returned, a different person was manning the desk. He asked what I needed and I proudly announced that I was here for a 3PM appointment to walk in. He was totally unmoved by the absurdity of what I had just said and simply whipped out a personal information form. Again, more respect.
The shop is in a fine American-style strip mall, wedged in between a girls’ dance studio and a day spa. Other inhabitants include three ethnic markets: Asian, Central American, and just generic “international”. With a minimal amount of walking, one can get authentic Szechuan spices, homemade tortillas, and whatever the hell Canada is known for.
The place was manned by three people — two artists and a third gentleman whose primary responsibility appeared to be acquiring various flavors of chips and energy drinks. I was a little worried about jumpy hands when I saw all the empty cans that had recently held 2.3 liters of sugar-infused caffeine. That concern was quickly assuaged when I saw how much they all smoked. Seriously, these guys made chimneys blush and talk in hushed tones. “Seriously, I think that chubby one has more creosote in his lungs than I do after three winters without a good sweep…”
When I left, I saw a team of beleaguered lung specialists taking cover from the heat of the day under a large shade tree as they passed a bottle of anti-depressants amongst themselves — thinly disguised by a brown paper bag. With an air of despair, they spoke openly about ritual suicide.
My artist certainly looked the part. The only parts of his skin that were not covered in ink were his face and a thin band of visible skin between the bottom of his t-shirts and the top of his shorts. After a quick consultation (“This is what I want.” “So, like, this?” “Yep.” “Cool.”) we scheduled an appointment to get it done… for 5 minutes later.
Amusingly, by the time my appointment rolled around — 300 seconds — he was “running behind” on account of a smoke break and time needed to set up his station. No worries — it was less time than the average doctor’s appointment, and the chairs were comfortable. He’s a really nice guy, and we chatted throughout the process.
The process itself wasn’t bad at all. I am a self-avowed pain wuss, and I only winced once or twice. Even then, that was due more to an unexpected jab. I do not know why my right calf needs to get involved when the tattoo is on my left forearm, but this guy seemed to know his profession. I’d be pretty pissed off if he came into my office — by appointment, of course — and told me how to do my job.
In fact, the most painful part was the movie they had running in the background. It was some action/thriller/spy movie starring two people I didn’t know, Eric from That 70s Show, and dialogue that would make mid-80’s Arnold Schwarzeneggar cringe. I briefly flirted with the idea of saying something derogatory about the “writing”, but quickly moved on from that notion for fear that the Sultan of the Snack Run would throw a bag of polysaturated fat at me, potentially ruining the vintage Bayern Munich jersey I was wearing.
It didn’t take long. In roughly 90 minutes, this was on my arm:
About halfway through I thought to get a “before” picture, but by then I was too late. No matter. If you just imagine the image above without a tattoo, you pretty much get the gist of it. You are only missing a few moles that are rapidly devolving into skin cancer after decades of lackadaisical UV protection. Maybe being covered in ink will buy me some time for those guys, especially the one that glows and trips off Geiger counters?
We returned to the stylish waiting area to settle up, and I could see a flash of light ignite behind his eyes when I mentioned that I’d pay with cash. Almost like a fire that said: “Cash — the form of payment I can get out of reporting to the Federalis…”. As I turned to leave, I asked if I needed to schedule an exit appointment. He looked at me as if I was a special kind of moron. Either these guys are hardcore married to the bit, or they really don’t know the difference between a “walk-in” and an “appointment”.
When I got home, my wife was visibly relieved that I had stuck to the planned “simple Doric column” and had not gone rogue and switched it up to “garish graphic re-telling of Gandalf vs. The Balrog”. My youngest was flummoxed by the permanency of the situation. “It’s like a sticker?” “Uhh… no.” Oldest just asked to play video games. However, a few hours later, he announced — and this is not a joke — that he wanted to get a huge snake wrapped around his arm, with a picture of Saturn, and a B for Baltimore.
Ah, youth…
“When you’re 18, bud…”
For more of my work on SYNERGY, please see: