In the past month I’ve paid for two extracted wisdom teeth, a pound of hamburger that went bad, a pound of chicken, set a date for my wedding, got punched in the face by my crazy dad, so I decided to get drunk and write this. I’m on drink two. If you’re going to write while you’re blasted, don’t start out sober. Now that’s stupid.
If you’re smart have one or two then get going. Reason being is you need to have some focus. One thing I learned in high school when I thought that some sort of latte
So, made three machines. Two Dietzel irons, liner and shader, which will either be headed to the UK, or sold to the highest bidder here.
Also I figured "what the Hell? I love dangerous chemicals", so I aged an old brass frame of more than slightly dubious origin, making what I like to call ny Dirty Old Salt finish.
All have silver contact screws and are nickel plated, then rubbed down in a sealing waxm except for the new/old brass. Prices are very reasonable too. Starting at $200, and far mor
My car having taken a dump I have been paying a close friend/client to drive me around until I find a ride that suits my coolness. There are quite a few options, but sadly the 1943 Willies Jeep was off the table, as was the Fat Boy. Trying to score some normal guy points with the lady took her out for Mexican. By cab no less! Romantic! Really!
Back when I was younger there were only a few Mexican places around, and all were Tex-Mex. I have no problem with that as my old bassist’s family always
“Hey Grady,” Cap’n Sven, who also happened to have a phone, “You know that big gorilla? What’s his name? The guy from St. Louis.”
Grady was eating an egg salad sandwich and took a huge bite, savoring the taste. Goddamn, he thought to himself, she sure can make an egg salad.
It was a balmy day, getting ready to go into summer season. It was a time full of promise for every vendor, talker, attraction and tattoo artist alike. For the cold gray winter in the city would lift its icy grip and the su
It never ceases to amaze me what people have to get into to fess up. When the phrase “the truth will set you free” comes more from the mouth of a torturer than the sage, people clam up. No this isn’t an introduction to my new tell all “How to Tattoo in 10 Easy Steps, With Pictures, and Sweep up the Place”.
What I was getting at was this; in an odd way, the anonymity of this whole internet thing has made this blog a sort of confessional. I say things on this blog that would never say to a c
A few months back I got a tattoo for my Mom. Its a Bert Grimm Rose of No Man's Land. My mom is a saint, putting up with a ton shit her entire life, only to end up with a miscreant, tattooing son.
Of course, I'm not the one with the half bottle of liquor induced brand on my arm with shitty blurry, blown out lines tattooed around it.
I am the guy who did the brand and lame tattooing however.
I was living in a band house, this squallid, non air conditioned place. Bad plumbing, bad roof, and the
Hello all. I's still alive and kicking, and slowly I have started building machines.
Just to proove it I got some new ink to share. Bert Grimm flash, and as he always had a good story... aw Hell, here is the link. See? Too damn dumb for a smart phone (took me 10 damned minutes to type this). http://tattooarchive.com/tattoo_history/floyd_pretty_boy.html
Close to the ditch too. Yikes! Shawn at Monster Monkey did it. You owe yourself one from these guys, three best, kind, and honest artists. True
Don't get too freaked out, or too happy (take your pick there. Love for the Gloomy one, or hate so richly deserved? Just no apathy. It's the worst. I'd take disappointment over that!) since I have not given up crumbing arms for a living.
"Well ya silly fuck, what's with the fake news? Not having one of those crazy spells again, I hope?"
My lady and I live in a really fucked, scary place. Right over the fence is the hood. And when I say over the fence, it's a well jumped chain link deal that do
"My fuck," I groaned, sweating, "I'll never get out of the weeds."
I rolled over, blinking, and saw my lady looking at me. "You alright?" She asked.
"Yeah. Bad dream," The light of 3AM being way bright for me.
"Bad?" She as always had to fish for it.
"Work dream," I grunted.
I've never met a woman more supportive of my endevors, and she even backs me on the crazy ones. A rare and kind person I am lucky to have met. I have been working on my machine building quite a bit these days and I mus
After a great deal of pain and my fiance' getting me to move on it I went to the doc's. I have these tumors... and they have been bothering me, and like many, I ignored it. I work, go home, and jump online for a few hours. "I'll get to it," I say to myself.
So this pain was in my huevos, and that got me to go. Not fun pain in the least. My doc asks me if she can see the tumors. I go to unhitch my belt.
"Noooooooo, " She laughs, "The ones on your back."
I do, and her jaw drops, she turns white
I hate to throw around the word professional.
I mean, what is a professional tattoo artist? Is it some one with dedication? Someone who understands art? Someone who can pound whiskey and tattoo a few hundred sailors in a night?
Or is a professional one who does not slag off competition. One who treats even the dumb with respect and kindness, but yet has a line that you don't want to cross?
Or is the professional tattoo artist one simply there to collect money, the art be damned? A scammer,
My lady and I just got cable, and cable internet, which is why you get to read more of my stuff. Lucky you. Yeah, huh?
I'll not watch Ink Masters. Just won't happen. I got burned by tattoo shows long ago, and once bitten, last time on the channel. I'll give 'em a shot for a few minutes, but then I see pin striping cars, and I hate it.
But ya know, I'll watch shows where they do cover ups all damned day long. I guess its the people person in me. What is tattooing if not the hardest of all the c
With the posters, hooka smoke, rum, hair grease, bottles of wine and funny business that has engulfed the tattoo, as if a thick glob of O2 sucking petrolium jelly its nice to think back to a time when disease, lawless toughs, drunk, toothless jaggers doing their best to get a bottle of cheap wine to fend off the shakes.
Sam Steward was a professor of literature, deeply alcoholic, and had realesed two books,as well as meeting many luminaries in the world of the word. However Stewart wanted out o
People tell me I'm crazy all the time. My family, band members, friends, well the few friends I have still.
I am crazy too. I'm impulsive, big time, and a little OCD (big O, little c) I think. Whats worse, I don't care if you know I'm crazy. I think crazy is where it's at in fact, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
Of course like most crazy people I don't have a plan. Or when I do, it's insane stuff. "Tattoo my hands, yeah," I thought to myself.
Finding a place to live can be a little roug
I've read a whole lot of tattoo history books. Talk about arcane, right? Its true and I've found a few good ones as well. First person accounts are always the best. Sure you can get more then a little BS in there. But you can BS anywhere.
So, since you're reading my BS, I'll tell you about this here Wear Your Dreams, by some little fella named ED Hardy.
Really though, all joking aside, between my normal chaos, my tatooing (which I been doing more of) & drawng I read this. Not only did I d
I was sitting drawing roses one day. Actually it was a good lesson in trusting the artistic eye too. I was sitting there with a 4B in my hand, this blank look on face, which ain't normal for me unless I'm thinking, and I closed my eyes.
I didn't have an apocalyptic vision, but I'm a fan of Chris Rock, and much like his "old guy in the club" bit, I saw myself at 60 (now granted, if you saw how I lived, smoked, and ate, you'd go, "Gloomy, you ain't gonna make it past 40."), bitterly bitching, co
So. In 24 hrs I met two people who have claimed to met Eddie Funk. I have not, and after writing this title, I think it might be a good idea if I don't.
I was out drinking, not my usual these days (I also ended up playing guitar, so I would assume that I was at least two sheets to the wind) and I get to talking. I'm chatty anyways, and this lady comes after I'm done making a jackass of myself with six strings. We get to talking, her, my lady and myself.
"I know Eddie Funk," Says she, "His shop
"The grand prize is (drum roll); hassles, nonsense, arguments, a possible early death, and anonymous life punctuated by some artistic pleasure. If you're lucky."
What a great life, yeah? You bet it is, and I would trade it for nothing. Meaning if I could, I dunno, teach history in college, like I wanted to before I found out that anything past a needle grouping is beyond my math skills, I would.
I love it, don't get me wrong. My station in life is what it should be. A, so far, known, and so-so
My lady has been nothing but good for me. Whats more, she's a fan of my art, off and on skin, and cheerleader for me to others. She has encouraged me to keep it up, no matter what kind of "entitled artist" BS I might catch or even when I get down on myself after seeing work that I might never be able to get to. She's been asking me for a tattoo for almost as long as we've been together, and I keep trying to find something from my mind that would fit her.
I saw Eddie and Penny Funk on a 'tu