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 client. I’ve probably said a few things that I wouldn’t say to my mom.
I’m almost 35. Half way to 40. Call it a half assed milestone. These days I think I’m playing my cards close enough to the vest where I don’t have to be a crabby asshole. Far from being the big shit, the BEST, I’ve realized that the rat race is for the birds. The BEST, as said by other artists vs. the people inked, is either way subjective. It’s sort of like watching the linesmen in a Sunday football pointing and telling the ref who has the ball.
Like anyone would listen to a guy who eats a pizza before every game and his every third sentence starts with, “Coach says…”
(For the record, I played right guard in high school before finding out I had asthma, and promptly gave it up for the dusty, oft weird trail that led me to these here irons)
At least those linesmen call it like they see it, and I’m sure you get more honesty from them then from a guy or gal who charges less since you didn’t want green in it.
I wasn’t in town for ________________________ (put your December holiday here, & I’ll avoid the ACLU, thank you very much) so my end of the year was spent driving to see my Mom, who left my Dad before Thanksgiving.
Abuse. 37 years of it. I’m glad that storm has subsided. I weathered it too.
We drove up to I-10 on 75, then north into Alabama, Mississippi, and to a small town a few hours from Memphis where my mom is from. A little place, pretty well untouched by the 21st century, with the exception of the bypass, which destroyed the commerce of the old Court Square, and a little street shop with Harleys outside.
The history, civil war, civil rights, the old cars, bbq, fireworks; I shook off the sunshine state crap and began to see things differently. I relaxed, saw rivers (including Tombigbee! Say it out loud, go on. It’s fun) and talked to people who were friendly enough to take the time to talk.
I even sang along with the Meat Puppets on the mp3 player.
I grew up in a tourist town. Right by the ocean no less. The place was in a constant state of flux, the motion making the heat all the more intense. Along with the fluidity of the tourist season there was also a chaos factor (a broken down minivan from Texas in the right lane, drunk tourists falling off of balconies at the time share)… and static.
Like a lot of the people I know for a long time I was static too.
For those who were from there, and I was one of the few born and bred that I can think of offhand, the feeling of being mired, bogged down, static, was terrible. Swallowed up by hidden quicksand in the dunes.
And it’s completely full of BS, which goes without saying. It maybe coastal, but it’s just a small southern town. Cliquish. Pretentious. Awful.
Truth is though (HEY! He made it back to his point!!! YAY! Chalk one up for continuity!), is I’m past it now. Not just the trip, but the places I’ve been since I took tattooing up full time, have changed me. I look on the former classmates who congregate at the bar and slap backs, telling stories of football games of yore, with a faint smile. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be stuck in the past that much.
Walking backwards in flip flops is for morons.
This year finds me better off, content, with a wonderful lady, and, if I were a religious guy, “thankfully” sober. Enough stuff to build heap big pile of machines too!
It’s new though, that’s for sure. My family isn’t the same. I’m not the same. It’ll never be the same…
It never is. It’s an illusion that it is, so I’m making the best of it. No resolutions, except I need more fireworks in my life.
This was a bit of a ramble to read I guess, very sorry. I try to be funny and you can only yuck it up so much. You might bust a rib, or at least strain yourself. Sometimes, dear reader, introspection creeps in, even for a lunk like myself.
“Introspection? About what, Gloomy?” You ask.
I’m not gonna tell you.