Alright. I'm sure there are at least a handful of kids out there dreaming of tattoos, but cannot currently get one because they aren't 18, and their parents are tyrannical hard-asses that make them wear Dockers and Saddle shoes to school. I am/was one of those kids. This is the story of how I tried to beat my parents' system, but ended up grounded with a sore back and shitty tattoo.
At A Glance Author Ruby2doom Contact Ruby2doom@bme.anon When Two years ago Artist extreme amature Studio basement Location Aurora, CO Being subject to the beastly confines of Catholic school, and boring-as-hell-white-bred-suburban-Denver, my only escape was to the nearest garage band. But Intoxicated with MADDNESS (yes the capitals and bad spelling), was not just a band, oh no. We were a rabid pack of miscreant teenagers wreaking havoc on my friend's neighborhood. One day, when we weren't in the mood for playing bad, loud metal, smoking at the park, screaming obscenities at toddlers, or hurling Black Cats out of my dad's Volvo, we decided to get tattoos of our band name. "Oh hell yeah!" I thought. At 16, you aren't thinking along the lines of good judgment, and everyone knows I wasn't envisioning flaunting my old band name around the other mothers at soccer practice years from now.
Anyhow, a week later we congregated at our lead singer's house. He had done some searching online and obtained directions. He had fashioned your standard prison tattoo gun, complete with guitar string and radio motor. But what to use for ink? I had seen a Discovery Channel special on the History of Tattoos, and thinking I was now a guru on the subject, India Ink was the answer. We paraded into a local art store, and poured out our change for a bottle of standard black ink. We disreguarded raised eyebrows from the clerk with our standard punk bravado. It said non-toxic on it, so we were good to go.
We got back to my friend's basement and set up: tattoo gun, batteries, ink, beer. Since there were 4 of us, we decided to be sanitary and dismantle a guitar for extra needles. We stuck the other "needles" in a Jack Daniels bottle filled with rubbing alcohol, and got started. I was number 2 after my friend had tested out his machine on himself, sporting a new, bloody and crooked pentagram on his back. I decided the initials IWM written in bubble letters would be good, on my lower back.
All I really remember was excruciating pain, and our drummer laughing, "Dude, you don't even have ink on that needle". All I could think of was that horrible B string ripping through my flesh, digging deeper as if the jackass tattooing me wanted to jam his gadget into my spinal cord. Then I thought of what a cool music video that would make.
Once it was over, my band members kept piling on the toilet paper in an effort to stop the bleeding. I went over and crashed on the couch, occasionally moving my hunchbacked ass over to peek at my other friends getting their tattoos. I wasn't just being a baby; our drummer nearly broke down in tears. My younger brother, who was also in the band, was last to go. His little robot man (he decided to be different) on his knee was half way finished when our lead singer's mom busted in. We literally threw the ink, gun, and beer across the room. The mom opened the door, did a room scan, and asked what we were up to. "Nuthin'. We're just talking...uh...planning a new song." We each added in totally random lyrics and clapped beats so that she would leave. As soon as the door shut, we all cracked up and did one of those "WHOOO" dealies everyone does when they escape near certain death.
Needless to say, we broke the little gun, and all the ink was on the carpet behind this kid's couch. Plus the fact that we were out of beer made us soon forget finishing our task. Who cared, I technically had a tattoo! I was soooo badass.
Over the next month or two, my tattoo slowly healed. The only good thing I can say I did for it was clean it with Dial soap and luke warm water. By month 3, I was feeling pretty good about things, and it was June, so I was wearing low-rise shorts. I waltzed into my house after hanging out, and my mother caught sight of my black, off-center, half faded, mostly scarred tattoo. "What is that!?" I slowly turned around and it seemed the fires of hell were shooting up through our kitchen floor, and O Fortuna was playing somewhere in the background.
In the next month I was doing pointless chores, like painting our cement basement floor, as part of my grounding. But after that, they pretty much forgot, and their anger subsided and yelling was nicer, as is usually the case, no matter what we do in my house.
I have done some really stupid things in my life, including many safety pin piercing jobs, and even getting my nipples pierced in the back of a cell phone store on Sheridan Ave. But I didn't realize how dangerous this tattoo adventure was. Yes, it was a free and cool at the time, but I soon realized that HIV/AIDS and hepatitis testing isn't. And every time anyone saw it, I'd have to tell the whole story, including the part where my band broke up after a few months.
Well, I have finally reached the ripe old age of 18, and I got a few more ear piercings including a tragus, and a really cool cover up tattoo. I still love tattoos and piercings, and I am planning to get more, but I've learned that clean, safe places are worth it. And tattooing your band name is a retarded idea.