Pins and Needles

I was digging through a metal suitcase full of original publications containing the wisdom and wit of myself when I happened upon my old tattoo portfolio. Did I ever tell you how happy I am not to be tattooing anymore? No? I am so happy not to be tattooing anymore. There are a couple of reasons why. There's the Sponge Bob smoking a joint reason why. There is the Tazmanian Devil in a baseball cap with the Puerto Rican flag on it reason why. There's the fairy clown on a sagging breast reason why. And, the I don't really like talking to people much but somehow always find myself in the position of working with the public and it kills me slowly reason why.

I always found it amazing how shocked and dismayed people seemed to be that I would walk away from all the glamour and the hardcore rock'n'rolliness of the tattoo world. The blood didn't bother me as much as the constant yapping. I realize getting a tattoo is cathartic, but it is not an excuse to take an emotional and psychological dump on me. And, things only got weirder and weirder when guys started sending me uninvited Snapple and sandwiches from local pizza joints. Not even sandwiches I liked! And, then there was the guy who wanted me to slowly tattoo is his whole body while pining away, telling me I looked like Trinity from the Matrix. Ugh.

That was not the first time I had ever been courted to please, please, please inflict some pain on a doting individual. But, my favorites were Alina, a blond buxom dominatrix and her attentive, cross-dressing brother Arthur. They first showed up when I was working at a place in Chicago called Earwax. I was a night manager, book keeper, waitress, cook, and video clerk. In general, a run your ass off type of gal. Sometimes, during my runnig around, I would get a bit, umm, curt. Maybe even hostile. Regular customers like "Ol' Hole in the Ankle" (huge holes between his ankle bones and tendons perfect for hooking one's self upside down) would show up for his daily bottle of cherry soda and cower in the corner. However, Alina and Arthur would beam up at me. Waiting patiently for their beverage and a few words. She would show me the latest photos of herself, would complain about the slob of a boss she had, would tell me where I could find her if I ever needed to find her, and would ultimately end the visit by begging me to take the twenty dollar tip for her double latte. And, Arthur would just nod his head and finger his freshly waxed eyebrows.

Eventually, I left Earwax to go work at a record shop selling used vinyl. Alina and Arthur found me. They asked around and asked around until they got the answers they wanted. And, to show how much they missed me they promised to bring German chocolate cake and Orangina whenever visiting. The record store proved to be a far better arena for Alina and Arthur. They didn't have to share my attention with other customers. I would price records and Alina would tell me stories about her clientele while Arthur shuffled through the used porn we had for sale. "Hmmm", I'd say. She would show me photos. "Hmmm, " I would say. She even brought one of her little Eastern European gangster boyfriends in to meet me. "Hmmm, " I would say.

One day, I up and quit the record store because the owner was a liar and a crook. And, liars make me turn beat red in the face and almost stroke out... so, I left. I lost any contact with Alina and Arthur because I never kept her phone number.

The other night, I was talking with a friend about boxing and wrestling stories. Mine happened to be about a guy who liked to wrestle women and give commentary the whole time like Howard Cosell. The ladies would put him in a head lock and he would report the series of events, ending with, "Can he do it? Can he do it?"

I'll end this with a funny bondage story. Years ago, before Sean "Carnage" Carney fell into the arms of Hustler and LACA, he went to a Black and Blue ball in Cleveland for a US Rocker article. Or maybe since he was already there, he decide to do a US Rocker article for it. Anyway, he tells me the bits and piece... the knots and bolts. "Hmmm," I said, until he relived a Birthday party scene. Apparently, some gentleman stretched out in a barber's chair was having his scrotum stretched out and pinned to a foam core board. Once the pins were all in place, candles were jammed onto the pin heads and lit. A crowd circled around to sing "Happy Birthday to You". And, then, he blew out the candles between his legs akimbo. "Hmmm, " I said. Sean went on to describe the man: pastey white, mustache, red vinyl tanktop, and dirty tube socks. "UGH! That is disgusting," I exclaimed. Sean was dumbfounded. Usually, I can handle the bizarre, unnerving, and extreme. "The socks", I explained, "the socks! Dirty tube socks!" So, it was known for years if you wanted to give me the willies, just mention the dirty tube socks.