everyone’s a fucking comedian

I go to the store, and the cashier has all this really horrendous wandering tribble on her arm. “Holy hell, wher’d you get that done?” I couldn’t keep myself from blurting it out.

Here it comes-I thought-now you’ve started it, you idiot.

“Oh my brother, he’s a tattoo artist!”

“Oh yeah, wher’s he work at? Maybe I know em!”

“He just tattoos at home, he works over at the minimart.”

Jesus christ. Every single idiot in the world knows a “tattoo artist”. everyone has some cousin holed up in a garage somewhere, scrabbling dirt into people.

I know I haven’t posted in a while, but that’s about to change. I’ve got some free time in the near future and a lot of posts typed out but not up yet. Sorry for the break.

burned out? try crack

During a busy week, I’m always thinking about the days when I was sitting around drawing. “Man, that was nice,” I think to myself. “I drew that sleeve in a day! And I got to take a walk to the coffee shop and have a leisurely cup of coffee, while the piercer said he’d call me if anyone walked in.”

But on the days when I’m drawing or it’s slow, I sit around thinking about the busy days. “It sure makes the day go by quicker to do twenty kanjis!” I’ll think. “Wonder if I can do a 10% off coupon for the word “breathe” in white on a wrist to drum up some business?”

The thing is- that the grass is always greener.

I had a very busy week. I have tomorrow off. I’ll be posting then. And no, I’m not burned out, just tired.

another saturday night

Summer saturdays are the best money day for tattoo artists.

This is pretty much universal. People get paid on friday; they get laid on saturday night because they go out sportinig their fresh tattoo. People have the day off work, people go outside in skimpy clothes all afternoon and look down at their pale white skin and say to themselves “I should really get a tattoo.”

It’s the day of walk-ins. Kanjis. Tribal arm bands. Taz (back in the day) and Tinkerbell and kid’s and parent’s names, viny “delicate” lines around ankles, hibiscus flowers on feet. Playboy bunnies on bikini lines, lower back tribal doodles, “mom” hearts, script, last names in old e.

It’s not the most fun day, usually, as far as being able to create amazing and kick-ass art goes, but it’s damn good for fattening our wallets. Tips are usually not the best on saturday- all that money WILL end up getting taxed- but the pay for all the small stuff makes it worth it. I think any tattoo artist worth their salt is probably tattooing every saturday.

Today, we had a gaggle of soccer moms, getting their children’s names. Three of the four women were getting “Emma” and “Jacob”, the other was getting “Isaac” and “Emily”. Seriously, three of these women had given their children the same names! It was bizarre.

They spent the whole time running in and out of the room, giggling, asking me personal questions (It’s really none of their business if I am married, right? Or if my girlfriend is a “top”? Or if I like strip clubs?Or if I have any tattoos on my private parts?) Usually I don’t mind engaging in any kind of weird talk about any subject, but the reek of “we’re here for the freakshow, show us your tail” was so strong on them, that I couldn’t really relax the entire time.

They weren’t flirting. They were examining me like a moth on a tray with pins in its wings. Revolting.

Following hot on their heels was a pair of fraternity-type boys. They were getting their fraternity letters on them. Both of them. In the same spot. They chatted during the tattoo, nearly held hands.

“So do you listen to death metal?”

Right now I’m listening to the radio, for your sake, but-

“Yeah.”

“Don’t you think it’s kind of stupid?”

What the fuck kind of question is this?

Last but far from least was my final customer of the day- a large, pale, somewhat-angry man in his forties. The years of beer and small-scale drug use had given him the skin of a dinosaur, thick and leathery. His veins were prominent in the way that only a part-time junkies’ veins can be, ropy and suppile. He coughed a wad of stale cigarette air at me while asking about the old-school flash.

“I wanna get a girl on my arm.”

“OK.” I said. “What kind of girl?”

“One that looks like this.”

He pointed at an incredibly old yellowed sheet of flash. Gorgeous stuff, this set. I love doing anything from it. “I’ll be glad to do that for you. Where do you want to put it?”

“Right here, over this old one”

He pulled up his T-shirt to show me a tiny, faded, green smudge.

“I can do that for you, easily.” I looked closely at the smudge. “what was this a tattoo of?”

“I got it in Saigon.” He said. “It was some slope bitch’s name, in their language. You can’t really see it now though.”

I had to clench my ass to keep from laughing out loud.

“I’ll just go set up. Be right back.”

I love seeing old, old tattoos like that. But the rheumy eyes on this guy; his demeanor, everything- it was too much. Hilarious. He was one of those people that will always be a customer, that I hope never get cleaned up out of tattooing. Even with his blunt racism I liked him.

It’s strange, but even though I’m not racist I didn’t take offense to his words. He got that tattoo done long ago, in a place where he was just a terrified kid. Most of the military guys I tattoo are the young, fresh meat on their way into the grinder. But every once in a while I work on the guys that all ready got choppped up and spat back out the other side. I can’t dislike them no matter what they do- something won’t let me.

He sat like a rock. Biggest tip of the day. the lady turned out lovely.

My boss spent the day working on a big piece, a walk in but a huge tattoo. When I told him about the old guy he laughed. “Kanji has always been big.”

the lady with the ankle bones

I go into work early yesterday, just to see if anything walks in. Like most good artists who work in good shops, I treat the studio like it’s my home. If I am not wrapped up in some other shit at home on my day off or before work, I go there to hang out and sit around. I like the people I work with so going in early- well, when you love your job it’s easy to go in early.

So I’m sitting there shooting the shit with our newest piercer (she’s smoking hot, I love flirting with her. too bad I don’t shit where I eat.) and this lady walks in, and comes over to the counter. I don’t recognize her face but that’s not unusual, she could be a client of mine anyway, because I usually stare at the tattoo the whole time I am working on someone I never remember people’s faces. I do remember every single tattoo I’ve ever done, though. I spend so much time staring at the tattoo that they’re all burned into my brain, forever, even the smallest thing. faces though-not really. I don’t remember faces at all.

“I want to ask about getting a tattoo.”

“Hey, I’m a tattoo artist, whatcha wanna know?”

“Well I have this .. thing. On my ankle. I want to know how much it will cost to touch it up.”

Most shops have this rule, we’ll do free touchups on our own tattoos. Seriously, if I fuck something up or it doesn’t heal right, I want you to come back to me so I can see what I did wrong, so I know better net time, and so I can fix it for you. I don’t want something that isn’t perfect walking around town with my name on it. I really like seeing my own work healed, too, so I am happy when people come back around. So far this conversation is friendly, no big deal, standard stuff.

I say, “Who did the tattoo? Is it one of mine? Because then it’s free.”

I see her eyes light up. Good, I think. She’s gonna be a happy customer of mine after today, and I’m gonna get to see one of my tattoos healed up, maybe take a picture.

“Yes, I guess you did it.” she says. Guess? The fuck?

“here,” I say. “let me take a look at it. I’ll let you know if I have time right now or if I need you to come back later.” -I have an appointment in about half an hour, so if it’s gonna take more than ten/fifteen minutes I won’t be able to fit her in.

She pulls up her skirt and turns her leg out for me to see.

HOLY FUCK. She has the most scribbly, noodly, doodly pile of shit trailer-park tribble scrawled all over her ankle. It’s like someone tried to draw old-school cartoon hairs on her leg, two inches wide, all the way around. Even the first ten minutes I was tattooing I’d never in hell have done this kind of shit on someone.

I get up and walk around the counter, fascinated. I get in closer and realize it’s also been done with a ver small round grouping; the holidays (gaps in color) are overwhelming. It seriously looks like someone scratched at her with a ballpoint pen! The telltale signs of home-made work, blobbed out fucking spots all slong lines, waggly lines that just jaggedly careen everywhere; thin bits with blown out spots, areas where the needles scarred the skin but put in only the shadow of a line. It’s a fucking catastrophe.

I’ve never tattooed outside of a shop; I apprenticed the old time way in the shop. I’ve never, even at the beginning, tried to kill someone with a three-liner on a tribbly piece of crap like this. I know every tattoo I have ever done. Even if I didn’t, there’s no way in fucking hell I did THIS tattoo, on THIS woman.

I look up at her from where I am crouched by her ankle. “I didn’t do this tattoo. Did you get this done in a shop?” I must know who this maniac is, creating such disasters on nice ladies like this.

“I got it done by you….uh….not here, at someone’s house.”

“I’ve never worked in a house.”

“But you look the same, with the ears and the neck tattooed!”

Now she’s getting a little frantic.

“Maybe the guy looked like me. But I’ve never worked in a house. Sorry. Anyway, we can still help it out somehow, make it look better, you know?”

I’m trying to be friendly now- honestly I have no fucking idea what would make this pile of steaming crap look better except for a belt sander and some hydrochloric acid.

“Well I guess it coulda been someone else. But he had a neck tattoo like you. But yours has color.”

Yeah, yeah. We all look alike, I know.

“OK, that makes sense.” I say.

“So how much would it cost, what can you do to make it dark again?”

“I would really suggest a coverup. The way it’s drawn, it just doesn’t have a lot of flow or direction. I could draw you a nicer tribal piece that wraps all feminine around your ankle. It’ll have to a little bigger but I think we can hide the scar tissue too, if we plan the cover-up right.”

There is no way that I can just go over this thing and it will look good. It is actually that fucking frightening.

“NO! I like it this way. I just want you to black it in, clean up the edges that are rough and make the lines smooth!”

This tattoo is so crammed in, so many tiny little bits; it’s going to look like a smudged up hunk of dirt on her if I hit it with a real tattoo machine. It’s got lines that are so crooked and jagged and wonky that if I try to fix them and clean it up, darken it in, it’s going to look even worse.

I tell her, “there’s not enough open space in there for me to fix it. See this line? If I try to make that line straight this whole piece will be touching that piece, and then this won’t even be there anymore, it’ll just be a big blob. That kind of thing means I really should just cover it up with a nicer tattoo. Can i show you some examples in my portfolio of what I mean?”

sweet as pie.

“If you can’t fix it, forget it. I’ll go over to (shitty cut-rate shop next door), they’re cheaper anyway, you can’t even fix it!”

“Ma’am, I can fix it but not just by re-doing it. We can make it look kind of similar if you like the style of this. I just can’t darken it, the way it is. It needs a little more help than just that. I can try to stay as close to this tattoo as possible if you like.”

still, being friendly. I don’t really care about (shitty cut-rate shop next door), I go out for drinks with the owner over there pretty often and we get along. They’re gonna tell her the same shit anyway. I just think that if I can get her to hear what I’m saying, she’ll calm down and listen. Right now she’s getting huffy, like she can talk me into doing the impossible. Meantime I am still crouched down on the floor, kinda examining her ankle.

“BUT I WANT IT TO BE JUST THE SAME. I LOVE this tattoo, I think it’s great. What do you mean, needs more helpl? My brother drew this!!!”

Oh shit.

I say “I’m not saying it is a bad drawing” Oh my god is it ever a bad drawing!!! “it just needs to be re-drawn to work well as a tattoo in this spot on your ankle.”

She’s already gone off into la-la land though, and it’s too late to bring it back. “MY BROTHER IS A GREAT ARTIST! HE CAN DRAW WAY BETTER THAN YOU ANYWAY!”

How the hell did we get this low in the quagmire so fast? I’ve always been good at bringing people back from the brink, but this time I was just so involved in staring at the horror show on her leg that I missed the golden moment in which the conversation could have been saved. Now I’ve got some crazy womoan hollering in my waiting room. Now I’ve got a few other clients (regulars waiting for the other artst to be ready for them) goggling their eyes at her. Shit.

“Look lady, If you can’t calm down you gotta leave. I can’t have you yelling in here.”

“I’LL STAY IF I FUCKING WANT TO!”

Now she wants to stay??? suddenly she likes me so much that she wants to be here?

“Please calm down. It’s not that big of a deal; I’m sorry I pissed you off but I didn’t mean anything bad about your brother’s drawing.” this is further than I usually would go, being nice, but I want the bitch to shut up.

“YOU DON’T FUCKNG KNOW MY BROTHER! HE WAS IN IRAQ!!!”

She’s really angry now; and I’ve just had it. I drop the smile and resign myself to kicking her out. It’s like this thing in my head- I hang onto thinking someone is ok but just a little kooky as long as I can, and then it just switches over and I give up. I hate this.

“get the fuck out.”

she looks at me, then looks away. “But I am a CUSTOMER. I HAVE MONEY.”

“You’re not a customer until I say you are. Now get the fuck out. You’re crazy, I don’t even know why you’re pissed off. Get out.”

She leans in to me and says “I’m gonna tell your boss, you’re gonna tattoo me and I’ll get a discount because you’re so rude!”

When she leans in I smell it- beer. This bitch is drunk! No wonder. For some reason this makes me calm again. I understand where the rage came from. she’s not a nutcase. She’s just a little fucked up and she’s been hyping up her courage, and now she shot her wad at me since I didn’t get her in the chair before her buzz wore off. Fucking people. I wouldn’t have worked on her anyway; neither would (shitty cut0rate shop next door), neither would anyone. She would never have passed the breath test (I lean in and whiff while they’re filling out their consent forms.)

“Look ma’am. You’ve been drinking. I couldn’t tattoo you now anyway. Go on home, sober up, and call us when you’re actually ready to get tattooed.”

this hits her buttons. I knew it would. Now I’m enjoying the confrontation.

“FUCK YOU! I’M COMPLAINING TO YOUR BOSS!!!”

as she says this,the shop owner walks out of the back. He is an old guy. I won’t say much about him here because it’s a giveawaya and I wanna stay anonymous. Suffice to say he puts up with even less shit than I do, but has the ability to be the sweetest guy ever while he kicks someone in the ass. I am in no way likely to be in trouble for what is going on.

“He’s right there,” I tell her. “Let him know.”

She goes over to him, and he’s still about ten feet away when he yells “Who the fuck is drinking in this fucking place? If I smell beer somebody better clear the fuck out before I call the cops!”

She does a 180 and beelines to the door, which is being held open by my 1 oclock appointment.

I had to quit flirting with the piercer and get to work. Oh well, there’s always tomorrow.

undercutting and gratitude

I suppose I am grateful that i live in the western world, and do not have to live in a cardboard box in a bustee in Calcutta with twenty other people. I guess I’m glad I have fresh water instead of drinking out of the same lake everyone shits in, like in some parts of Africa.

This doesn’t mean I won’t call my landlord when the faucets break. Doing that wouldn’t show my “gratitude”, after all, it would just show that I am spineless and do not use the advantages I DO have.

Tattooing is much the same way. I’m glad I don’t have some shitty minimum-wage or piecerate factory job, or have to heave drywall for a living. I’m very glad that I don’t have to take orders at the drive-through or kiss ass at the door of walmart.

But this doesn’t mean I will lower my prices, or feel bad that I earn more money than those people do. I don’t have fucking malaria either. I don’t starve until the red cross shows up with flour paste. I don’t have guinea worm or dehydration, and I live in a modern apartment. Should I feel bad about that? Fuck no. I don’t feel bad at all. Luck and skill and effort have all had their roles in my current position in life. I would never waste what I do have because of guilt about what others don’t.

I worked hard to get here. I’m good at what I do. I’ve been doing this for nearly twenty years. I have no reason to feel bad because some guy wants more than he can afford. It’s not my fucking job to make people feel better about their financial shit. It’s my job to make drawings on people who can afford it.

I sometimes run into (usually young) tattoo artists who think that they should grovel because they are so “lucky” to be tattooing. These are the same kids that say “the industry” and “customer service” and talk a lot of shit about how they loooove all their clients. All I can say to these people is, just wait. You may not be burnt yet but give it time. Unless you are on some really good meds these fuckers will drive you off the deep end eventually, and you won’t be doing the great tattoos you ought to be, you’re going to suck eventually because you’re not paying attention to what is important in this job. You will let the shit customers drain you of everything that makes you able to get better at what you do, and you’ll fall into the pit. You can’t let someone else’s shitty life take your energy away from what should matter most to you.

The only thing that matters is making a good tattoo. If you have to beat someone up to make a good tattoo, do it. Eat a baby. Insult their mothers, their taste, steal their wallet, fuck, whatever it takes. Your job isn’t to make everyone you meet smile. It’s just to make a good tattoo on people who can afford it.

And when you undercut, work cheap, lower your prices for their sob stories, you’re being unfair to the people who have worked their asses off to save money for their work. You’re ripping off your good clients for the sake of a pile of shitty ones. Like I said, enjoy your burnout.

I have clients who come in, ask about a tattoo. I tell them the price and how long it’ll take. They hand me that amount of money plus a nice tip. I do a great tattoo on them. Eighty years later they value the work; they worked their ass off to pay for something really nice and they enjoy it fully.

These are good clients.

Now if I gave in to the sad sacks that can’t fucking afford me, how do you think these clients will feel when they run into that broke-ass fucker at the bar, with a comparable tattoo, who paid much less? they feel like shit, that’s what. They feel like I ripped them off. Like I am unfair.

I’m not. I refuse to give the rotten apples a break at the expense of the good ones. Fuck the cheapskates, the scammers, the guy who wants his backpiece for a hundred bucks. These people have not earned a tattoo.

Fuck the customers who want me to treat them like they’re delicate flowers because they spend money, too. I don’t need to kiss ass. If I was interested in customer service, in making tattooing accessible to the masses, I’d be on fucking TV selling it out to them right now. I’m not. tattoos are not for everyone.

Tattoos are not for everyone. If they were, they’d be worthless. They’d be another fucking thing you could get cut-rate from an exhausted, underpriced cashier at walmart. They’re not, and they never should be, something that just anyone can have or something that just anyone deserves.

They’re too good for most people.

Tattooers that will lower themselves, that will kiss ass, that will make themselves the prey of just anyone because they are so grateful just to have a job or just to be doing this; those guys hate themselves and they don’t think they deserve any better. Those people are the reason every soccer mom on earth wants to get “breathe” in white script on their wrist for less than the cost of five lattes. Those artists think nothing of themselves, they have no pride in their work. They hate you just as much as I do, don’t be fooled, but they hate themselves more.

I don’t know about you but I am grateful for the things I lucked into, the things that were handed to me. Like living in the west and not in Nigeria. Like having a giant cock and not a little one. Like the fact that my hair is easy to manage and that I have all legs and arms and no extras. I am grateful for those things.

I am PROUD of the things I have earned. Proud. Not grateful. Tattooing was not handed to me; I earned it. I am proud to do it. I am proud of tattooing in general. I am not grateful for my position. I did not get it through luck; it’s skill and hard work that gave me this. I’m grateful that my parents raised me to work my ass off for what I want, but the things I’ve earned that way? I am proud of.

I have no reason to be interested in pleasing anyone but my good customers. They’re the ones that keep me going. Bad customers have no place in my life, and I have no reason to reassure them. Fuck them. They don’t deserve a tattoo, from me or from anyone. They just don’t belong here. Send them home to watch tattoos on TV. They can afford that.

I know what my work is worth. If your artist will barter or dicker with you, they don’t have any pride in what they’ve done. They think they suck and they have no confidence in their skills. why should you trust them, when they don’t trust themselves?

an answer for you

I got into tattooing because:

I could draw but I couldn’t pass a test and failed at the SATs.

I liked rock and roll and tattoos make people look cool.

I listened to a lot of death metal and I was a fat kid.

I like to hurt people.

I was too lazy to be a graphic designer.

I wanted to have a lot of tattoos and be an artist.

I flunked out of art school.

I had a girlfriend who told me I’d be good at it. Wonder what ever happened to that whore.

I thought it was tough to have tattoos and I like to draw.

I wanted to get laid and can’t play the guitar for shit.

I wanted to earn a living in the underground economy but I’m too rude to be a pot dealer.

I wanted to be a part of something bigger than me- something that has its roots in sailors, drunks, hookers, hobos, and other trash (if I am american) or something that has its roots in criminals, murderers, and thieves (If I am asian).

I like living on the edge.

I saw it on TV (for the new generation of artists)

I like to draw but for some reason, somewhere along the line, I was too fucked up to be a millionaire, a physicist, a famous abstract artist, a celebrity photographer, a supermodel, a rock star, a banker, a lawyer. Something was wrong with me a little bit, inside, and now I draw things on people all day. I couldn’t sit still in class, loved looking at pictures of naked chicks, smoked cigarettes or reefer or drank. I couldn’t succeed at these normal things and the tattoo gods came and swooped me up into their safe arms, leading me to a heaven filled with ass tribal, douchebag armbands, kanji, and the rare big gorgeous piece of free skin. I found my home on the outside of the world you live in, and I like it here. I hurt you and you pay me for it- I make you look better, sometimes have to argue with you endlessly to make you look better- and I call this my career.

It’s the best job in the world, really. It’s ok for you to be a little jealous. Every time I tell you to shut up I am exercising one of the real perks of my job- I’m being free from the kind of servile crap that everyone else has to deal with all day. I’m asserting the fact that the tattoo gods do not care about customer service as much as they do about how well I put that picture into your skin. I’m defending the pride of my field against the encroaching forces of chaos, TV fame, and have-it-your-way crap that modern society is trying to force on it. I’m keeping tattooing obscure and occult everytime I tell someone to fuck off.

I’m ok with that. I don’t have to be an asshole to good clients. They never provoke it. It’s the rest of you bastards.

names

Most people who want someone’s name on them are good people. They love their kids, but have no imagination, they can’t think of anything other than the kid’s name to express their love; so they end up getting a paragraph’s worth of text, their mom, husband, wife, three kids…they’re ok people and writing all over them isn’t so bad.

Then, there are the others.

People who bicker about the cost of the name- why, they know a guy who will charge them twenty bucks to write “Alassandra Honeysuckle, Ferdinand Jonathan, and Saralynn” on their lower back with bling swoops all around it. Why on earth would we, a professional shop, charge MORE than the guy who worked on their sink, to do a tattoo???

These people come in hoping that their love for children I have never met will somehow melt my heart and make me forget that I have rent to pay, too. The mention of a basement scratcher friend is inevitable. Ditto the “Can you make it smaller?” question. “Ma’am, it can’t be any smaller. It won’t hold up over time.” And the inevitable reply: “But I don’t want anyone to be able to see it!”

If your kids are THAT important to you, why arer you relegating this tattoo to a two-square-inch section of an invisible part of their body? This doesn’t sound like a meaningful thing to me- it sounds like a trinket.

Some people are good about it, and will get it the right size, and pay the right price. Lettering isn’t that expensive really, compared to other tattoos. There’s really just no way to MAKE it expensive. But some people act like $60 is the end of the world. These folks can’t afford a tattoo. They want one though, and they’re a thorn in my side, taking up my talk time with their bullshit while some nice lady who wants some ass antlers has to stand around waiting. I never really minded doing lettuce on people, or ass antlers for that matter. But there’s a certain amount of bullshit that comes along with names and lettering.

Most of the timme the people asking for it don’t get tattooed, by me or by anyone, in any shop I’ve been at. They haggle for about twenty minutes, argue about size, make an artist draw something for them, look at the font books then walk out the door, searching for that twenty dollar tattoo.

I hope they find it.

This has nothing to do with my customer service skills. They do it to everybody, and depending what part of which town you work in, there are more or less of these people every day at the shop.

I knkow some artists would think this is a race thing but it isn’t. All races have their idiots, and this is no exception- these customers come in all colors. The funniest ones, of any race, are the ones with bling all over them. Nice car, big diamonds, or yuppies….then they get upset because something that is permanently applied to them in an aseptic environment is more than $20. Well, fuck that.

One of my friends said “Everyone gets the tattoo they deserve” and I really believe that’s true.

The unwritten rules

I suppose after this, we can’t call them “unwritten” anymore, can we?

1. WASH YOUR SELF.

Do not come into my clean, spotless, antiseptic world smelling as if you rolled around in dead cat, skunk weed, or beer. If you can smell yourself, that is a very BAD sign. If you are paying enough I may put up with it but keep in mind the crew will be talking about your disgusting funk for the rest of the day.

2. PAY MONEY.

Do not think for a moment that your attractiveness, youth, “coolness”, willingness to promote the art, or sob story, will in any way change the price of your tattoo. As a matter of fact, I know you are a cheap bastard, and it pleases me to quote you a higher price than anyone else. The minute you tell me a sob story or try to dicker with me I get this twinkle in my eye, and it is related to ripping you off. I want to be paid well for what I do, because your cousin in his basement can not do it as well or safely. Now fucking put your man pant son and pay the proper price without argument.

3. KNOW WHAT YOU WANT.

Do not tell me you want ten different designs in a space the size of the palm of your hand. You want ten tattoos? GET TEN TATTOOS. I am not going to help you cheap out or get something that will look shitty just because you are afraid of committing. Guess what? I think you are a pussy. You don’t know what you wawnt, and I fucking hate indecisive fuckers. So pick one thing, and tell me what it is, and I will make it look nice on you. None of this grocery-list bullshit.

4. YOUR FRIEND CANNOT DRAW.

All the artwork I have ever seen from your friends who are “amazing artists”? Looks like a retarded five-year-old scrawled it on a piece of toilet paper. Art school is for suckers- I know, I went too. I sucked then. So does your friend. You’re paying me for my professional service as an artist, whether or not you are aware of that, so leave your shitty scribbled compacted tribal hemmorhoid nonsense at home hanging on your fridge, where it belongs.

5. YOUR FRIEND CAN WATCH IF THEY ARE NOT DISTRACTING ME.

Your friend? Is not paying me by the hour to perform skilled artistic work on them. So they don’t get to moce my books around, stand in my light, ask me how I got started in the industry, try to find out what equipment I am using, tell you they think you should add more foliage in the rose you’re getting, or tell me about their uncle who tattoos in prison. You know what, you are my client and while you are paying me for my time I will pretend to care about your bullshit. your friend, on the other hand, is a worthless pile of shit, and they are making your tattoo look worse with their constant interruptions. ever try to do focused exact work with no mistakes for an hour while a child asks a hundred pointless questons? Then you know how your friends make me feel. Shut them up or leave them at home.

6. YOU DO NOT NEED TO ENTERTAIN ME.

I have heard every question you are about to ask me, at least ten times today. You fucking tire me out, you people. I understand that you want to feel “safe” with me but the time for that was twenty minutes ago, BEFORE I started stabbing you with needles. Got that? BEFORE I started trying to pay attention to your tattoo, that was when you should have asked how long I have been doing this, how I got into it, whether I like it, and all that other shit. It’s too fucking late now. If I sucked I’d already be fucking you up. And your constant chatter makes me uncomfortable, and makes me lose my grip on what the fuck I am doing on your skin. You don’t want a fucked up tattoo, right? Then shut the fuck up. I will pretend to be friendly and not say this to you, but I’d rather you didn’t try to make nice with me at all. At least then I am selling my talent and not my fucking soul.

7. IF I SAY IT CAN’T BE DONE THEN JUST LISTEN.

You cannot argue with me enough to make an old english name readable at less than a 100pt font size. Your words do not change reality. At all. I don’t know what kind of oprah bullshit you have been listening to, but your words and your desperate need will not change the fact that your skin is not paper.

8. TIP ME.

Yes. I will say it again. TIP ME. Tip me as much as you can. You made me listen to your sob story, you made me try to hold you still while I was drawing, you fucking chatterboxed for the last two hours. You picked something stupid (I know I told you it was cool, but that’s part of my job) you will walk around town with that douchebag tribal armband saying my name to all your broke loser friends, and I still have to pay out the shop a percentage, pay for ink, eat some food, pay taxes, pay for my license fees to the state, and pay for my gas to get here. Add onto that the fact that tattoo artists do not have 401ks, medical/health insurance, dental covevrage, and that we get carpal tunnel, lung cancer, and our eyes and backs fail, and your lack of tips makes me hate your guts. Just quit being an asshole and tip me. Once again reality is that the money you gave me doesn’t all go directly into my pocket. Your tips make a big difference and point you out as someone who is not an asshole…and who maybe deserves a softer towel to wipe with, or a gentler hand to tattoo with.

9. IT IS GOING TO HURT. SUCK IT UP OR GO HOME.

Shut up. Sit still. Quit being a pussy. You want a tattoo? Get one. Don’t keep asking me what it is going to feel like right up until it happens. YOU are paying ME to do this. I don’t give a shit if you get tattooed or not, honestly, I just want you to shut up.

10. THE PIERCER CANNOT TELL YOU ANYTHING USEFUL.

I don’t fucking know what is wrong with your navel. Ask that guy with the big tribal face tattoo and the giant earlobes. And he doesn’t know how much a kanji costs.

Corollary rules:

be on time

eat before you come in (if you are anorexic, don’t bother trying. I hate it when you skinny bitches pass out on me because you think crackers and water is “lunch”. It’s called blood sugar levels and you need them to get a tattoo.)

don’t fuck around with my stuff, or touch anything in the work area without asking (that trash you just grabbed has a full day’s worth of other people’s blood on it. nice going mr. contagion!)

no kids. I’m fucking serious. Leave them at home. I don’t give a shit about you OR them, but I hate seeing kids who do not know better put at risk by adults who SHOULD. My shop is a place where adults who may engage ini risky behavior BLEED. Where there are pictures of naked ladies humping giant, studded, gooey dildos while flames shoot out of their ass. Where people talk about cock piercings and anal fisting (among other unsavory topics). Cursing is rampant. Your kids are not welcome under any circumstances, and if you try to leave them in the car outside while you get their names tattooed on you I WILL call the cops.

and last but not least, just don’t be a dick. You are not in control here. So give up the macho shit or the cutesy shit and just behave. your writhing and moaning does NOT turn me on, it makes my job more difficult and I think you are repulsive. Your posturing tough guy act does not fool me, because I am about to hurt you and make you cry. Just chill the fuck out and be normal, ok? And it will hurt a lot less. I promise.

Hello world!

Hello world. I’m your tattoo artist.

And I’m getting sick of your stinky, complaining, whining pussy face. Can you just hold still for five minutes? Because I have some things to get off my chest, and it’s about time you sat down, held still, shut up, and listened.

What does your tattoo artist think of you? From your perspective, in that chair, you probably have the impression that we think you’re pretty cool. Or that your moaning, twitching ass is attractive. You could not be more wrong.

Now there is a certain subset of our clientele who should not, at all, take this blog to heart. You act in accordance with the unwritten ten rules of the tattoo studio and you make our jobs incredibly worthwhile. You people, just listen in, because this blog is not written about you. You’re good clients, and you have no reason to fear. It’s the bad clients, the 10-15% of you that act entitled or clueless, that should be reading this and taking every word seriously. Of course you will not be the people who are worried what we think of you, though, so you bad clients will probably not even be reading this blog.

To all you good and great clients, thanks so much. You guys are the reason I love my job, and continue to do it in spite of the other jackasses.