Tattooed Warrior
Incognito Tattoo shop sits on the second floor overlooking Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena, California. A trendy area of Los Angeles County, Colorado Boulevard is home to many stores and restaurants. One can sit out on the patio at Starbucks and watch the shoppers walk by with their newly acquired treasures in bags while thumbing through the latest David Sedaris, or one can buy some awesome used DVDs and CDs at the Record Shop, or one can do what I do and go get my first tattoo.
I had decided a year ago that I was going to get some ink on my body and it wasn’t until a month pior that I had decided that it was going to be Siouxsie Sioux’s (from Siouxsie and the Banshees) eyes on my inner left arm. I do not fancy myself a cheesy impulsive type that just picks something off of the display wall and sticks it on my body. With my luck, it would end up being the Pygmy symbol of fertility and I am not about to walk around with an emblem of impulsiveness for everyone to point at laugh at.
Walking into the shop with my friend Juan, a sudden cool air rushes against me. A curly, brown-haired woman stands at the counter, sipping on Starbucks sustenance while overlooking her friend who is lying on his stomach getting a tattoo of a matador and a bull on his back. Red faced and eyes closed tightly, this is not a good sign. I have always been a wimp when it comes to pain. Images of blood, needles and me crying like a guilty hooker at church instantly flood my mind. I COULD turn around but I remember, “FEEL THE FEAR AND DO IT ANYWAY”
A tattoo-clad employee with a smiling, Noxema fresh face and an orange t-shirt that says “STOP THE DRAMA” comes up to me from the back. Although smiling and welcoming, this woman is undercover hardcore . . . eating a full fiber diet in one minute and kicking ass in the other. I was sure that with HER there, no drama would take place . . . ever.
“Hi,” I said. “I am here for an appointment at three with Mojo.”
“Hi James” Mojo says while coming out from behind the back room. A man in his late thirties, he has a lot of experience under his belt. “Did you bring the picture?”
I hand to him the picture I had found of Siouxsie’s eyes that I wanted to have on my inner left forearm. After hours of fruitless searches on the information superhighway, this was the image that would be with me forever . . . a constant reminder of this rite of passage in which I was to embark upon. I was no longer James the interpreter with a passion for movies where the bad girl wins. I was James the young warrior, sent out into the world to gather nuts and berries and kill a few defenseless animals. I was man-child anew and THIS was my vision quest.
Looking up from her Starbucks, the curly brown-haired woman takes a break from gazing at her friend in his tortured state and walks over to us.
“Oh let me see!” she says with a genuine curiosity. “Oh, Siouxsie! That is so awesome! Is this your first tattoo?”
“Yes, and I am FREAKED!” I reply with a half-smile.
“It will be nothing” replies Mojo. “Now what I am going to do is go in the back and make a stencil of it and we will see how it looks, okay? In the meantime, give Carrie your driver’s license and she will have some forms for you to fill out.”
He walks to the back and Carrie in her STOP THE DRAMA t-shirt walks to a file cabinet covered in stickers and pulls out some forms. Instantly I am more nervous. I can feel my heart pounding and my muscles tighten. A pool of sweat trickles down in between my man-boobs.
“SO, Carrie . . . how do you find the time to work here and keep busy putting a stop to all the drama?” I ask as I look at her t-shirt.
She laughs. The Starbucks woman laughs. The working tattooist laughs. Mojo can be heard laughing from the back. Boy-In-Pain is not laughing; he is in his own world and nobody else was invited. One of the many quirks that I have when I am nervous is to crack as many jokes as possible. This helps me deal with the fact that someone is about to cut into my skin with something sharp.
So I begin reading and filling out the “YOU NEED TO FILL OUT THIS CRAP SO THAT YOUR POTENTIALLY LAW SUIT HAPPY ASS CAN’T COME BACK AND TAKE OUR PICTOGRAPHIC BODIES TO COURT” paperwork carefully, making sure to read every paragraph and put my initials and sign my name. Starbucks girl says to me, “So what are you going to get after? You KNOW you’re going to be addicted!”
Sarcastically I say, “I want my body to eventually be an homage to women detectives throughout history. I am not going to rest until I have Nancy Drew on mah ass, Cagney on one boob, Lacey on the other, Angie Dickinson’s Police Woman on mah neck and Angela Lansbury on mah elbow . . .”
“Fighting crime one body part at a time?” she retorts after a hearty laugh.
I am in love. I look up from my paperwork and gleam at her. Adoration for this woman fills my heart. She is no longer the girl with the Starbucks coffee, but a vision of loveliness in sandals and a beaded bag.
“Will you hold me if it hurts?” I ask.
“It IS going to hurt!”
“Not as bad as it’s going to hurt when I pull your hair!” I reply.
I finish signing the paperwork and hand it over to a giggling Carrie. The time to actually get poked is drawing near and I feel as if I am not really there, but up on the ceiling watching everything that goes on. Inside my head, I hear the voice of my grandmother saying to me, “IF YOU GET A TATTOO, I AM NOT SPEAKING TO YOU ANYMORE!”
“Yeah right, lady!” I think to myself.
Soon after, Mojo comes out from the back holding a small paper. Smiling, he says, “Okay lets shave your arm and put this stencil on you! Come on around! I want to be able to put the stencil on your arm and you tell me if you think it’s positioned right, okay?”
I walk into the work area and sit down in the comfortable chair while Juan flips through several photo albums of the already initiated tattooed warriors who have come before me and lived to tell their story through polaroids. My new life partner says, “Are you going to cry?”
“I only cry while watching Steel Magnolias.”
“Wouldn’t it be awesome if they redid that movie and Dolly Parton actually owned a tattoo shop instead?”
Instantly I light up again. “YES!!! They are all gossiping while Olympia Dukakis gets a lightning bolt and a rose on her boob!”
“YES! And Julia Roberts goes into a diabetic fit while getting her sleeve worked on!”
Again, the laughter from the tattoo shop ensues and my love for her blossoms like a flower. Rarely do I meet someone that makes me laugh out loud.
After shaving my arm and putting the stencil on to my liking, Mojo begins the task. Every tattoo starts with the outlining, which is said to be the less painful part of the process. Eyes focused and biting his lower lip, he works with the careful skill of a craftsman. I, the warrior, turn inward in an attempt to deal with the sting, taking in deep breaths of air and conjure up non-sequitor thoughts and images in my head
Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens. My mom has a tattoo of a butterfly on her ass. Where is Tina Yothers? I like pizza. Rose Nyund or Edith Bunker? Probably Rose cuz if I had to listen to Edith talk all day in that voice, I would probably hit her over the head with a rice cooker. I really could use another shelf for my dvds.I am not going to be satisfied until I have a whole wall covered in plastic. Amber graves of Wayne. It’s just us, the cameras and those wonderful people out there in the dark. Excuse me but can I be you for awhile? My dog won’t bite if you sit real still. I got the anti-christ in the kitchen yelling at me again . . .
“Do you want a sucker or anything?” a voice says.
I look up into the eyes of a smiling Carrie. “Not if you think it would be too dramatic,” I say with a half-smile and eyes glazed over.
She laughs and hands me the sucker which I bite into fiercely in an attempt to deal with the pain. For years philosophers have pondered the question of how many licks it takes to get to the tootsie roll center of a tootsie roll pop. It took me less than a second.
About 15 minutes later, my roommate walks into the shop. Weezie is the quintessential lesbian artist with tattoos adorning her body like oxygen, enough surgical steel on her body to build a bridge, and spiky hair not unlike Sandy Duncan in her Peter Pan years.
“Helloooooooo!” she says after hugging Juan.
“Mojo, look at her work!” I said.
Mojo looks up from my bloodied-beef jerky arm with raised eyebrows and the calmness of a Buddhist monk. “Let me see!” he says.
Weezie lifts up her t-shirt sleeve and shows him the seventy-two hours of work it took to do her arm. The intricate three-quarter sleeve was no laughing matter; this was hardcore. Scenes of bunnies, bubbles, and two half-naked women in bunny costumes adorn her like a child’s whimsical blanket. She is the bunny queen and my dinky little 45 minute tattoo pales in comparison.
“OUCH!” Mojo says and he starts working again on my arm. For a man like Mojo, who is covered in work himself and a tattooist for 13 years, if it hurt . . . he would know. With a smile of satisfaction on her face, Weezie rolls her shirt sleeve back down and looks at me and mouths, “Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!!”
Twenty minutes later, Mojo was finished with my arm. It was over. I walked in a newbie and now I was a man worthy enough to instill fear into the hearts of many a passerby. As Mojo wraps my arm in plastic wrap and tells me some instructions for after- care, I stare at the new symbol of my manhood. A virile force to be reckoned with, I am now ready to take on the world by storm. Any challenge brought forth against me is but a meager one and I will crush it with my solid man-ness. I instill fear in the hearts of Pasadena passerbys and as we leave Mojo, Carrie, Starbucks Girl and INCOGNITO TATTOO to make our way over to Target for some retail therapy, people walk around us like Moses parting the red sea. Cell phone mommies hide their children’s eyes and Target Team Members quiver in their red shirts and khakis. I am so tough, I cum gravel.
“My masculinity runneth over!” I say aloud to my cohorts as I hold the GOLDEN GIRLS SEASON TWO dvd that I plan to purchase.
“You are wrapped up like leftovers!” says Weezie about the plastic wrap on my arm as we walk down the street and away from Target.
“Oh I am a TOTAL casserole right now!” as I look in loving contemplation at Siouxsie looking up at me.
I want more.
www.incognitotattoo.com
I had decided a year ago that I was going to get some ink on my body and it wasn’t until a month pior that I had decided that it was going to be Siouxsie Sioux’s (from Siouxsie and the Banshees) eyes on my inner left arm. I do not fancy myself a cheesy impulsive type that just picks something off of the display wall and sticks it on my body. With my luck, it would end up being the Pygmy symbol of fertility and I am not about to walk around with an emblem of impulsiveness for everyone to point at laugh at.
Walking into the shop with my friend Juan, a sudden cool air rushes against me. A curly, brown-haired woman stands at the counter, sipping on Starbucks sustenance while overlooking her friend who is lying on his stomach getting a tattoo of a matador and a bull on his back. Red faced and eyes closed tightly, this is not a good sign. I have always been a wimp when it comes to pain. Images of blood, needles and me crying like a guilty hooker at church instantly flood my mind. I COULD turn around but I remember, “FEEL THE FEAR AND DO IT ANYWAY”
A tattoo-clad employee with a smiling, Noxema fresh face and an orange t-shirt that says “STOP THE DRAMA” comes up to me from the back. Although smiling and welcoming, this woman is undercover hardcore . . . eating a full fiber diet in one minute and kicking ass in the other. I was sure that with HER there, no drama would take place . . . ever.
“Hi,” I said. “I am here for an appointment at three with Mojo.”
“Hi James” Mojo says while coming out from behind the back room. A man in his late thirties, he has a lot of experience under his belt. “Did you bring the picture?”
I hand to him the picture I had found of Siouxsie’s eyes that I wanted to have on my inner left forearm. After hours of fruitless searches on the information superhighway, this was the image that would be with me forever . . . a constant reminder of this rite of passage in which I was to embark upon. I was no longer James the interpreter with a passion for movies where the bad girl wins. I was James the young warrior, sent out into the world to gather nuts and berries and kill a few defenseless animals. I was man-child anew and THIS was my vision quest.
Looking up from her Starbucks, the curly brown-haired woman takes a break from gazing at her friend in his tortured state and walks over to us.
“Oh let me see!” she says with a genuine curiosity. “Oh, Siouxsie! That is so awesome! Is this your first tattoo?”
“Yes, and I am FREAKED!” I reply with a half-smile.
“It will be nothing” replies Mojo. “Now what I am going to do is go in the back and make a stencil of it and we will see how it looks, okay? In the meantime, give Carrie your driver’s license and she will have some forms for you to fill out.”
He walks to the back and Carrie in her STOP THE DRAMA t-shirt walks to a file cabinet covered in stickers and pulls out some forms. Instantly I am more nervous. I can feel my heart pounding and my muscles tighten. A pool of sweat trickles down in between my man-boobs.
“SO, Carrie . . . how do you find the time to work here and keep busy putting a stop to all the drama?” I ask as I look at her t-shirt.
She laughs. The Starbucks woman laughs. The working tattooist laughs. Mojo can be heard laughing from the back. Boy-In-Pain is not laughing; he is in his own world and nobody else was invited. One of the many quirks that I have when I am nervous is to crack as many jokes as possible. This helps me deal with the fact that someone is about to cut into my skin with something sharp.
So I begin reading and filling out the “YOU NEED TO FILL OUT THIS CRAP SO THAT YOUR POTENTIALLY LAW SUIT HAPPY ASS CAN’T COME BACK AND TAKE OUR PICTOGRAPHIC BODIES TO COURT” paperwork carefully, making sure to read every paragraph and put my initials and sign my name. Starbucks girl says to me, “So what are you going to get after? You KNOW you’re going to be addicted!”
Sarcastically I say, “I want my body to eventually be an homage to women detectives throughout history. I am not going to rest until I have Nancy Drew on mah ass, Cagney on one boob, Lacey on the other, Angie Dickinson’s Police Woman on mah neck and Angela Lansbury on mah elbow . . .”
“Fighting crime one body part at a time?” she retorts after a hearty laugh.
I am in love. I look up from my paperwork and gleam at her. Adoration for this woman fills my heart. She is no longer the girl with the Starbucks coffee, but a vision of loveliness in sandals and a beaded bag.
“Will you hold me if it hurts?” I ask.
“It IS going to hurt!”
“Not as bad as it’s going to hurt when I pull your hair!” I reply.
I finish signing the paperwork and hand it over to a giggling Carrie. The time to actually get poked is drawing near and I feel as if I am not really there, but up on the ceiling watching everything that goes on. Inside my head, I hear the voice of my grandmother saying to me, “IF YOU GET A TATTOO, I AM NOT SPEAKING TO YOU ANYMORE!”
“Yeah right, lady!” I think to myself.
Soon after, Mojo comes out from the back holding a small paper. Smiling, he says, “Okay lets shave your arm and put this stencil on you! Come on around! I want to be able to put the stencil on your arm and you tell me if you think it’s positioned right, okay?”
I walk into the work area and sit down in the comfortable chair while Juan flips through several photo albums of the already initiated tattooed warriors who have come before me and lived to tell their story through polaroids. My new life partner says, “Are you going to cry?”
“I only cry while watching Steel Magnolias.”
“Wouldn’t it be awesome if they redid that movie and Dolly Parton actually owned a tattoo shop instead?”
Instantly I light up again. “YES!!! They are all gossiping while Olympia Dukakis gets a lightning bolt and a rose on her boob!”
“YES! And Julia Roberts goes into a diabetic fit while getting her sleeve worked on!”
Again, the laughter from the tattoo shop ensues and my love for her blossoms like a flower. Rarely do I meet someone that makes me laugh out loud.
After shaving my arm and putting the stencil on to my liking, Mojo begins the task. Every tattoo starts with the outlining, which is said to be the less painful part of the process. Eyes focused and biting his lower lip, he works with the careful skill of a craftsman. I, the warrior, turn inward in an attempt to deal with the sting, taking in deep breaths of air and conjure up non-sequitor thoughts and images in my head
Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens. My mom has a tattoo of a butterfly on her ass. Where is Tina Yothers? I like pizza. Rose Nyund or Edith Bunker? Probably Rose cuz if I had to listen to Edith talk all day in that voice, I would probably hit her over the head with a rice cooker. I really could use another shelf for my dvds.I am not going to be satisfied until I have a whole wall covered in plastic. Amber graves of Wayne. It’s just us, the cameras and those wonderful people out there in the dark. Excuse me but can I be you for awhile? My dog won’t bite if you sit real still. I got the anti-christ in the kitchen yelling at me again . . .
“Do you want a sucker or anything?” a voice says.
I look up into the eyes of a smiling Carrie. “Not if you think it would be too dramatic,” I say with a half-smile and eyes glazed over.
She laughs and hands me the sucker which I bite into fiercely in an attempt to deal with the pain. For years philosophers have pondered the question of how many licks it takes to get to the tootsie roll center of a tootsie roll pop. It took me less than a second.
About 15 minutes later, my roommate walks into the shop. Weezie is the quintessential lesbian artist with tattoos adorning her body like oxygen, enough surgical steel on her body to build a bridge, and spiky hair not unlike Sandy Duncan in her Peter Pan years.
“Helloooooooo!” she says after hugging Juan.
“Mojo, look at her work!” I said.
Mojo looks up from my bloodied-beef jerky arm with raised eyebrows and the calmness of a Buddhist monk. “Let me see!” he says.
Weezie lifts up her t-shirt sleeve and shows him the seventy-two hours of work it took to do her arm. The intricate three-quarter sleeve was no laughing matter; this was hardcore. Scenes of bunnies, bubbles, and two half-naked women in bunny costumes adorn her like a child’s whimsical blanket. She is the bunny queen and my dinky little 45 minute tattoo pales in comparison.
“OUCH!” Mojo says and he starts working again on my arm. For a man like Mojo, who is covered in work himself and a tattooist for 13 years, if it hurt . . . he would know. With a smile of satisfaction on her face, Weezie rolls her shirt sleeve back down and looks at me and mouths, “Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!!”
Twenty minutes later, Mojo was finished with my arm. It was over. I walked in a newbie and now I was a man worthy enough to instill fear into the hearts of many a passerby. As Mojo wraps my arm in plastic wrap and tells me some instructions for after- care, I stare at the new symbol of my manhood. A virile force to be reckoned with, I am now ready to take on the world by storm. Any challenge brought forth against me is but a meager one and I will crush it with my solid man-ness. I instill fear in the hearts of Pasadena passerbys and as we leave Mojo, Carrie, Starbucks Girl and INCOGNITO TATTOO to make our way over to Target for some retail therapy, people walk around us like Moses parting the red sea. Cell phone mommies hide their children’s eyes and Target Team Members quiver in their red shirts and khakis. I am so tough, I cum gravel.
“My masculinity runneth over!” I say aloud to my cohorts as I hold the GOLDEN GIRLS SEASON TWO dvd that I plan to purchase.
“You are wrapped up like leftovers!” says Weezie about the plastic wrap on my arm as we walk down the street and away from Target.
“Oh I am a TOTAL casserole right now!” as I look in loving contemplation at Siouxsie looking up at me.
I want more.
www.incognitotattoo.com