Effluvia

I went back to Memphis last weekend for the first time since I got tattooed. The reaction from friends was positive, as I expected. I've got cool friends. The family seemed to like it too, overall. My father in-law, while disappointed that the picture wasn't his daughter, really seemed to like it. My sisters admired it. My grandmother asked why there was a tattoo on my leg. My mother in-law hoped I'd never become unhappy with it.

Strangely, my mom never said a word about it, though I know she saw it and even if she hadn't some family member would have told her about it. Glenda may be in a bit of denial.

Three Years Ago
Seeds. That's right, motherfucker: seeds.

Two Years Ago
"...we made some killer CDs."

One Year Ago
"This is the best thing I've ever put in my mouth ever!"

So I got a tattoo this summer. That's an interesting story.

Years ago - July 28, 1994 - I got some birthday money from my mother and my in-laws. I'd been looking at tattoos, and...well, the rest is history, no? I've got a lovely little parrot on my left shoulder.

Ever since then I've been thinking, "you know, I need another tattoo. But what shall it be?"

And in that manner seven years passed.

Yikes! I'm old!

Anyway, I moved down here and if you can't say anything else about the town you can say there's some fine tattoos walking around. Last fall I had decided on a lion - the lion that is the logo for the English nightclub Gatecrasher. 'Cause a lion is one of the symbols of the Williams family - the English branch of the family, anyway - and I'm a Leo, so the symbolism would have had many layers.

So I wrote about that here and then some yahoo (hello, yahoo, if you're reading this) wrote to me and said that was no lion, but in fact a griffon, a freaky-ass bird-lion from mythology. I disagreed with him, but the seed of doubt had been planted. No way was I getting that tattoo.

After a winter of deep reflection I'd made a newer, better decision: I would have a picture of Sonya tattoo-ified and put on me. Sage, the excellent New Orleans tattoo diva, would put it on me. I took her a picture to work from and sat back. This was at the beginning of May.

Over the next couple of months Sage sent me several of her initial drawings based on the picture I'd given her. They were all very good, which wasn't a surprise, but none of them were exactly what I wanted. Though the Super Tittified version of Sonya was certainly memorable. Still, it was a bit much.

Fast forward to the weekend of the Depeche Mode concert - an excellent show, by the way. Anyhow. Jose and Camille, friends from Memphis, had come down for the show and the day after we were walking the Quarter, which requires a stop at The Dark Entry. I was looking through their display case of Bettie Page goodies and I really liked this drawing of her wearing a blue dress on a Zippo. It was also on an air freshener, which I bought.

"That's my next tattoo," I told Sonya.

"Cool," she said.

I e-mailed it to Sage and she was like, "aw, hell yeah."

On Friday, July 27, 2001, for the first time in my life I shaved my own leg. A part of it, anyway. The outside of the left calf, to be exact.

That Saturday morning we got up and went to La Peniche for a healthy pre-tattoo breakfast. But they were closed for vacation. So. Parking the car on Rampart we went to Deja Vu for big fat life-sustaining burgers instead. Grease-o-rama.

After that we hobbled back to the car for the short drive to Electric Expressions. Sage had just opened the shop, so we hung out and just generally chilled while she made a line drawing of the picture and then applied said drawing to my leg.

A couple of things:

1. While I don't think I'd want to hang out a tattoo parlor all day every day, the vibe is undeniably cool. The most interesting people wander in and out! Spending a few hours in such a place definitely gives you a look at a life that you might not see too often if, say, you work a straightforward office job. One dude walked in with shit tattooed all over his face and every spare inch of skin pierced. He wanted to talk to the manager.

   "He's an artist," Sage said, "I think he's looking for a job."

   "I guess so," I said, "what else is he going to do?"

   We also got to look at some fetish magazine with pictures of this guy who had hugely swollen testicles. I asked the John Bender question.

   "How does he ride a bike?"
   
   

2. I can't say enough good things about Sage. Professional, talented, and very good at setting the customer at ease. And she's pleasantly low-key, too. I've met tattoo types before who are kind of cranked up and defensive about both their work and the art on their skins, like they've got something to prove. Not Sage. And the way she handles the jockish, locker room-type banter of the shop is to be admired. She even let Sonya sit in the little tattoo bay with us for moral support. And to hand me my bottle of water. If you're in New Orleans and you're looking for a tattoo she's the one to go to, no question.

So go ahead, ask the big question.

"Did it hurt, Harold?"

Hell yes, it hurt! Goddamn, you don't even know. She got about halfway done with the outline and I thought to myself, "Harold, you may not make it through this." I really thought I was going to have to get up and walk away, a half-tattooed girl on my leg. Then Sage switched needles to do the color work.

If I understand it correctly, a single large needle is used for outlining. Then, a needle made of several smaller needles is used for the color. I had heard that the color needle hurts somewhat less, and this proved to be true with me.

Have you ever scratched yourself on a nail or something else sharp, or maybe been scratched by a cat? That's kind of what getting tattooed is like. Except when those things happen you pull away and do what you can to tend to your wound and make the pain go away. When you're getting a tattoo you get scratched again and again, sometimes for hours.

At one point Sage went to run a line of white along the front of one of Bettie's legs. Jesus, it was bad. I thought she'd swapped out the tattoo gun for a straight razor and had gone hacking away towards the bone. I actually had to look down and see if my flesh had been hacked. My head did get a little light. Sonya said the color dropped from my face like a rock out a window.

We took several breaks, and each time I'd go out and smoke with Sonya. I smiled at the people who walked by and stared as the blood ran down my leg and into my sock.

Finally, three hours and change later, the tattoo was completed. I thought the process was so delightful I even purchased a t-shirt. Sage bandaged me up and off I went, back to the house to rest for a bit before meeting friends for dinner at Mona's and bowling and drinking at the Rock and Bowl.

I hit the couch and almost immediately dozed off. Sonya got me up moments before we were to leave for my night o' birthday fun. I hopped up to use the bathroom and walk the dog.

In the bathroom, I was overcome by a wave of nausea and light-headedness so powerful I thought I was going to fall, spraying piss everywhere. Somehow, I managed to keep my feet long enough to zip my pants and backpedal to the bed, where I plopped down and put my head between my legs.

"My god," I moaned, "what have I done? What horrible mistake have I made? Nothing is worth this most profound miserableness." I was afraid the whole night of fun would have to be cancelled.

As quickly as the sickness had come upon me it was gone. I walked the dog, unbandaged the tat and off we went to Mona's, where the hummus and tabouli settled the last of my jitters. Later, at the Rock and Bowl, the Molly Ringwalds played cheesy eighties cover tunes that my (surprisingly large) birthday contingent sang along with. Needless to say, my new art was the talk of the party. In many ways, it was the best birthday ever.