idol hands
one week ago to-day, i got my left hand tattooed.
many people have questioned why i'd get my hand done when the rest of my arm isn't anywhere near sleeved; to them i exclaim "fuck off!" and then, after apologizing profusely, i explain i'm just workin my way up from the bottom, which is how you do anything, really.
it's my commitment to the trade which gave me a purpose in life. it's my commitment to my independence and self-reliance. it's a reminder to not get distracted from my goals. it's a bunny sitting on a big shiny ruby!
the itching and peeling is about as tolerable as a stick in the eye. only three more weeks and it'll be healed up. like a boss.
i got the tattoo during my vacation back home. it was near impossible to find a decent shop in connecticut. there's no licensing requirements for tattoo artists. not even a requirement for first aid and bloodborne pathogens, which i find fucking disgusting. tattoo artists deal in blood almost every day -- it seems a mighty good idea to be familiar with cross-contamination, eh?? initially, i wanted phil young of hope gallery to tattoo me, but he's really good and booked up for a month. that's what happens when you don't plan ahead for things like, oh, permanent etchings under your skin. so i found a neat little shop called phoenix ink, and it was practically right down the turnpike from my sister's house. i wanted jay phoenix, the owner of the fine establishment, to sling the ink on me, but he was also very much booked up. his co-worker, a funny, mustachioed gentleman by the name of broccoli robb, ended up doing the tattoo for me and a very competent job he did, indeed! HARRUMPH!! i am twirling my walrus mustache in satisfaction.
the next time i go to CT, i'll actually plan out my tattoo excursions a little better and set an appointment with phil young to do some work on me. optimally, i'd like him to do my irish pride tattoo. not a shamrock or a flag or something equally lame for me, no sir!
picture this, dear readers: a big, steaming plate of thickly sliced, perfectly cooked corned beef and cabbage. red potatoes and carrots nestle in next to the meats and greens, like baby birds to the mama bird. allow room, readers, on this most heavenly dinner plate, for a couple of slices of delectably buttered rye bread to round out the meal. sitting behind this dish like a creamy sentinel, a frosty glass of darkly delicious guinness beer.
yeah. i'm taking this shit to the max.
and this hand tattoo is here to remind me of all the things i haven't yet accomplished. and that nothing will be unless i keep my head on straight.
many people have questioned why i'd get my hand done when the rest of my arm isn't anywhere near sleeved; to them i exclaim "fuck off!" and then, after apologizing profusely, i explain i'm just workin my way up from the bottom, which is how you do anything, really.
it's my commitment to the trade which gave me a purpose in life. it's my commitment to my independence and self-reliance. it's a reminder to not get distracted from my goals. it's a bunny sitting on a big shiny ruby!
the itching and peeling is about as tolerable as a stick in the eye. only three more weeks and it'll be healed up. like a boss.
i got the tattoo during my vacation back home. it was near impossible to find a decent shop in connecticut. there's no licensing requirements for tattoo artists. not even a requirement for first aid and bloodborne pathogens, which i find fucking disgusting. tattoo artists deal in blood almost every day -- it seems a mighty good idea to be familiar with cross-contamination, eh?? initially, i wanted phil young of hope gallery to tattoo me, but he's really good and booked up for a month. that's what happens when you don't plan ahead for things like, oh, permanent etchings under your skin. so i found a neat little shop called phoenix ink, and it was practically right down the turnpike from my sister's house. i wanted jay phoenix, the owner of the fine establishment, to sling the ink on me, but he was also very much booked up. his co-worker, a funny, mustachioed gentleman by the name of broccoli robb, ended up doing the tattoo for me and a very competent job he did, indeed! HARRUMPH!! i am twirling my walrus mustache in satisfaction.
the next time i go to CT, i'll actually plan out my tattoo excursions a little better and set an appointment with phil young to do some work on me. optimally, i'd like him to do my irish pride tattoo. not a shamrock or a flag or something equally lame for me, no sir!
picture this, dear readers: a big, steaming plate of thickly sliced, perfectly cooked corned beef and cabbage. red potatoes and carrots nestle in next to the meats and greens, like baby birds to the mama bird. allow room, readers, on this most heavenly dinner plate, for a couple of slices of delectably buttered rye bread to round out the meal. sitting behind this dish like a creamy sentinel, a frosty glass of darkly delicious guinness beer.
yeah. i'm taking this shit to the max.
and this hand tattoo is here to remind me of all the things i haven't yet accomplished. and that nothing will be unless i keep my head on straight.