“You’re totally a biker now,” said the gentleman who permanently marked the second toe on my right foot with a shitty infinity symbol. I don’t know that “biker” is what I was going for, but I do know that the single line that cost me $20 wasn’t really worthy of any street cred.
Nevertheless, I could now say I was tattooed. It was probably 1997. I was content for several years. Me and my sneaky inked persona were working on other things. Like having babies and stuff.
I thought about getting another. It was hard to choose what to get. Like what if you choose “LA Raiders 4EVR,” or maybe the limewire logo? Do you want permanent ink to be based on temporary circumstances? I think not. That’s why the infinity symbol was the first one. “It’ll be relevant forever because it means forever.” Yes, that made sense to my still cooking brain. But what to get next?
There was a friend, Travis Bassham, who’d shared the idea that he wanted to get kanji tattooed on each shoulder; one meaning “to teach” the other meaning “to learn.”
Poor guy was just shooting the breeze, next thing he knows I’m stealing his idea. “I like to learn!”
I’m not a total animal. I asked him before I actually did it. I even showed him different kanji representations of learn so I wouldn’t steal the exact one he wanted. Then,….I really did get “to learn” tattooed on my right foot. It hurt. Badly. I’ve never been skinned, but I wonder if the feeling is similar. Got it done at lunch from the bank. There’s probably not a lot of mystery to me anymore now that I put all my info on blast, but in case you didn’t know; I don’t speak Chinese. So I believe my tattoo to mean “to learn” but it may say “sweet and sour number 5.” The closest I ever got to a real interpretation was at the kids’ pediatrician, Dr. Hu. He said “yea, I guess I can see that.” Not very reassuring, but no ragrets.
I went about 7 more years before my next tattoo. The delay wasn’t because I was struggling about what to get, I just didn’t have any pull to do it. I couldn’t even tell you why I found myself talking to a guy near my job about being permanently tagged with “I dunno, a heart maybe.” He starts to take notes. I add, “Maybe a heart with some kind of design around it?” A couple weeks later, Sally and I headed back to that shop for what in fact turned out to be “a heart and a design” on my left thigh.
This tattooing itself was different than being skinned. It was oddly soothing. I’m sure there are varying experiences, but for me it goes “Ow!”, then “Okay, maybe I can do this”, then endorphins kick in and it becomes a meditative experience of overcoming a painful challenge while watching art be created.
There were a series of yearly tattoos to follow; “flower and stuff,” “skull and stuff”, peony, honey bee, and most recently, the beautiful posey on my right thigh. Every single one had that arc of “I’m going to die because of this” to “I feel so relaxed and peaceful.” Each sitting was uniquely personal. Again, I can only speak to my personal experience, but there’s something very connecting about giving part of your skin to an artist. In the work I’ve had done, the artists are careful to make sure they don’t break you but push you decently so work can get done.
There was some element of planning by folks with expert skill so several of those tattoos connect making one large piece; from high on my ribs to low on my thigh. Despite that, my tattoos are still pretty sneaky. I can pass for inkless. Or I can show off and prove that I’m more inked than a WWII sailor.
I sometimes feel a little superficial when having tattoo talks. Some people get each one with intense personal meaning. I just do it because I like them.
I tried to backfill a meaning to the big skull on my hip. “It’s symbolic of mortality.” “What? You only got one shot? You Eminem?” This highlighted the absurdity of my attempt, but also gave the friend at my hip a name. He’s Marshall. NOT Biebs. MARSHALL.
So what started all those years ago with a shitty line, didn’t turn me into a biker. I mean, I had that Honda 230 for a minute, but I don’t think that really count since I never went faster than 3rd gear on it. But it did turn into an appreciation for a craft and something that will be a part of me as long as I exist.
Addendum: On this very day I was walking in downtown Redding. A “gentleman” who seemed to have decided flannel pajama bottoms only was the exact right outfit for the day was sharing the sidewalk with me.
“Hey sexy mamma.”
He was either talking to me, or the pleasant looking gma who was ahead of us waiting to cross at the light. Everyone has to establish their course of interaction with folks downtown. Generally, I’m not afraid to say hello. Even if I haven’t been called “sexy mamma.” So I said hello. We continued on the path to the crosswalk.
“I like your tattoo. What does it mean?”
“Thank you. It means ‘to learn'”
Without missing a beat he asserts, “Learn to foot fuck?”
Followed promptly by “Show me your toenails!”
In between fits of laughter I was able to tell him that it REALLY doesn’t mean “learn to foot fuck.”
“But, that’s like a fetish or whatever. Show me your feet.” There were other words. Utterances of attempted convincing. They were hard to track due to the unexpected absurdity of it all.
I felt that my continued engagement in the chat prevented gma from pulling out a gat and busting a cap in him.
“Do you know who Fred Flintstone is? Because that’s what my feet look like.”
He was undeterred from continuing to request to see my feet. I was undeterred in getting back to my office without allowing my foot to be,…uh…objectified.
Awful taste, but great execution, guy. Better luck next time.
Bifocals and Barbells 