Tag Archives: tattoos

I need another tattoo…bad!

Anyone who knows me, knows I love tattoos.

The last tat I got was a tiger’s head on my left pectoral, which I got well over a year ago.

 

Grrrrrr!

 

In total, I’ve got 17, including my wife’s name, kids’ names, several tribals, a few dragons and a complete back piece.

I’ve been meaning to get my last child’s name inked on my left bicep, but simply haven’t gotten around to it.

And I’ve been jonesing.

To make matters worse, I’ve been in the vicinity of my tattoo artist several times, but simply haven’t been able to drop in and put in the work.

Worse still, are all the tattoo shows that have been on recently – mocking me.

The proverbial straw was the Afropunk piece I saw today, featuring a full spread of tats.

Flash, I’m putting an all-points bulletin out for you.

I need another tat!

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Got tattoos? Will hug.

I got my first tattoo when I was 20. The tattoo was a Native American image of a medicine man, which I got on my right shoulder from Big Brad, a 6’5″ tattoo artist (who looked every bit the part of a Hell’s Angel) at his tattoo parlor in South River, New Jersey.

I tolerated the mild sensation of pain, knowing that on the other side waited my first tattoo. Afterwards, as it healed, I marveled at how it looked, and knew that I would get another.

My second tattoo was a hand-drawn design (my representation of a phoenix) which I had Brad put around my belly button. The pain was markedly different from that of my arm, but tolerable, and I focused, once again, not on the pain I was experiencing, but on the knowledge that when Brad was done, I would have, yet another tattoo.

My third tattoo was a griffin lion, on my left shoulder blade. Before I knew it (and with considerably less pain than either of my first two) I was done, and clearly addicted to tattoos.

Since leaving New Brunswick, and college, I have gotten 14 more tats, including the names of my wife and children on my arms, a tribal dragon on my left thigh, a tribal double dragon across my lower back and my sides/ribs, a band on my right forearm, three tribal freehands on my right and left biceps, and left forearm (one which I got in Bali on our honeymoon), a full mosaic on my back depicting a prophet receiving the word of God and a trio of angels, and a Japanese tiger on my left pectoral.

Ladies, please control your hormones.

Some of my tattoos were completed in one sitting, while others took several sessions lasting up to four hours each. All told, I’ve spent no less than 48 hours under the gun. I’ve become quite intimate with my tattoo artist, Flash, as a result of all these tats. No homo.

A few of my tattoos are abundantly personal, others whimsical, and at least one, totally impulsive. But I love them all, and will probably get a few more before I’m done.

Why all this talk of tattoos? Let’s just say I’ve got tattoos on the brain.

I spent Thanksgiving evening at the Princeton Marriott Hotel and Conference Center at Forrestal with the family and we went swimming in the heated pool. While we were there, there were these two little boys, who just stared at me the whole time.

I thought they simply lacked home training, until my wife pointed out that I’m covered in tattoos, and the kids had probably never seen a dreadlock with tats before in their life.

Last night, I responded to my friend’s indirect Facebook query about tattoos. The takeaway being that anyone covered in tattoos has something wrong with them.

In all fairness to my friend, she used Lil Wayne and Iron Mike as examples of excessive tattooing, but I took issue nonetheless. Anyone who covers themselves with tattoos has issues? I think not!

Sure, SOME people who cover themselves in tattoos may suffer mental deficit, of which tattoos are the outward manifestation of their inner demons. But that does not mean that all people who sport lots of tats are similarly compromised.

I, for one (well…I may not be the best example of sanity, but let’s assume I am sane) don’t believe that my tattoos are evidence of mental imbalance. I LIKE tattoos. A LOT. So I have a lot of tats. It’s really that simple.

Members of the Ink Nation are part of a subculture, that prim and proper people cannot and will never have the capacity to understand.

I think that tats, like any other form of body modification, is simply a reflection of the person. To make the leap that anyone who enjoys anything (that is not inherently harmful to themselves or other people) is crazy, is a bit…crazy!

If you’re a strict constructionist, and take every word of the Bible literally, then people who get tattoos are irredeemable sinners, destined for hell.

But for everyone else, folks with lots of tats are just that, folks with lots of tats. They are no different from you and I, they just don’t mind displaying their uniqueness for the world to see.

So the next time you see someone covered in tattoos, don’t shrink away or stare dumbfound. Walk over to them and give them a hug!

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Please…not…yet (a dad’s nightmare)

The words cut through me like a knife, “I’m gonna marry Evon.” These words, spoken by my seven (yes seven) year old daughter, were a sucker-punch to my gut, as I sat in the passenger seat on the way home from the train station. The wife had a wry smirk on her face (she knew how I would react) as I grappled with emotions so deep I was drowning.  She was amused by her daughter’s crush.  I was crushed by my daughter’s amusement.

I thought I had more time…to formulate a gameplan..to keep boys away. I wanted to wake up from this bad dream, from this nightmare, really.  Who knew that I would have to start implementing ‘Operation Keep Away’ so early?

Operation Keep Away. My strategy for preventing my daughter from dating boys until she’s 18 (and out of the house-out of sight, out of mind). Actually, it’s the strategy to keep boys from WANTING to date my daughter, for fear of life and limb.  It’s quite simple.  The first boy to come to my door (looking for my daughter) will be greeted by a sight that will haunt him forever.

Think Rambo meets Shaka Zulu. Me, 6’3″ with dreadlocks wild atop my head; no shirt, tattoos covering my arms, chest, stomach, shoulders and back (just-released-from-prison-ex-convict-style); two large machetes tucked into the waistband of my military fatigue pants; a halo of smoke around my head; and sunglasses to cover wild-crazed eyes.  

In my best Patious, I’ll grumble, ‘What a gwan?! Whatcha bloodclot doin’ pon me door?!’ At which point, the young man will wet himself and run home, terrified. He’ll tell all his friends of the horrible man at 120 High (the last house on the right-literally), and my daughter will be date-less until she goes off to college.

Now the wife thinks my strategy is for the birds, but what does she know? And my daughter is blissfuly unaware of the terroristic nature of her pronouncements.  

A cold sweat covers my brow as I type this post.  

I really thought I had more time….

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