A Freakish Reception

It had been two weeks since I moved to Boston, and I was ready for something, anything really. I didn’t expect my first big adventure to be a tattoo convention, but when I heard about it, I simply couldn’t resist. I had heard that the doors would open around 10:00 a.m., and I knew it was somewhere on Tremont st., that was it. Yet, being the the mastermind planner that I am, I decided we would leave at 9:00, and beat the rush later on that day. We got off the redline at Park st., and quickly oriented ourselves in the direction that we would need to travel. Guess I should probably clarify this "we", well it is me and none other than Ryan Lesko, the nephew of the great 90's Infomerical guy who wore the riddler suit and had some crazy rant about free money from the Government. They are basically one in the same. (Lesko appears on this blog elsewhere.) If I knew then and there that I was about to walk 4 miles to wait six hours so a man could stab me in the arm with a tiny needle about ten thousand times, I might have reconsidered.
We arrived at the Boston Center of the Arts, and I had a quick look at the schedule.
Friday 10-12, Saturday 12-1, and Sunday 10-10.
"Today is Saturday, right?" I asked
"Yeah man" replied Lesko
"Fuucckk"
We decided to walk on in anyways and take a peek around before the big show. There were about 200 hundred of these little booths scattered around, and two hours later they would be crammed with tattoo artists and eager folks who are looking for their next weird piece of body art. As well as a general assortment of looneys, transvestites, and genuine decent people.
Everyone who has ever gotten a tattoo will tell you that it is addictive. "Cocaine for your skin" they would say. Actually I made that up, I don't think I ever heard anyone say that one, but it sounds about right.
Having realized that the convention would not open its doors to the public for another two hours, my first instinct was to drink heavily until the doors were opened, then approach a vendor representing Art for Life(descending from the great state of Vermont), and demand some outrageous deal on the basis that we were brothers from the same earth(Vermont). When I learned that you can not get drunk before you get a tattoo it was like a kick to the nuts, with iron boots. I was truly demoralized. Instead, we sat outside the Center of the Arts, smoking cigarettes for two hours, waiting for the time to come.
At first there was only a handful of people; some huge biker types covered with tattoos from head to toe, some elderly women(they might have been lost), and a couple random freaks. By 12:05 the crowd had mushroomed into a line of about 200 hundred deviants from all walks of life. Groups of men in Kilts, overweight Gothic chicks, Dead Head hippies, the entire Boston chapter of the Hells Angels, skinheads, even the carnies, and then there was me, a strangely normal looking guy who felt rather out of his element at the time. The doors opened and a wave of people poured into the venue, it was like these people were running for the last boat on the Titanic, it was terrifying. For the first hour I just walked around trying to find someone who had a worthy tattoo for my “guns”, nobody, not even my Vermont brethren, were up to the challenge of tattooing the Gonzo fist on to my left arm.
I was beginning to feel disappointed. So I retired to the bar to maybe get the creative juices flowing. It was either Bass from the keg, or tin bottles of Bud, I went with the Bud. Luckily the bar area was scattered with bean bags, tables, and even an X-Box 360 with Guitar Hero II. “My God”, I said. “These people don’t know what they’ve done.” Within moments I was serenading people with my moving rendition of Heart Shaped Box, it was magical. After the song was over I was struck by a brilliant idea. One of those people doing tattoos out there is bound to have a computer. All I needed to do was have them google search “Gonzo fist”. It worked, I am a genius. The winning Vendor was Trinity Tattoo out of Florida. The main man was busy working on another tattoo, but he said to come back in 3 hours. Three Goddamn hours of anxious waiting and they expected me not to get drunk? The Magic Hat summer variety show was there, the mini fucking circus and they expected me not to get drunk? “Sweet Jesus, let me drink like my ancestors, now more than ever.” The Circus was starting, so I watched the first act. It was some dude dressed as a cowboy twirling a lasso around and jumping through and whatnot. Meanwhile a woman approached me wearing; a pair of black hooker boots, a pink poofy skirt, a red/white/blue corset. I turned to her and asked “So uhh, you and err, the rest of the circus work for Magic Hat?…that it?”

She glared at me, “We work WITH Magic Hat”

That was the end of that conversation. Seconds later she was climbing the stairs on the side of the stage, but her poofy skirt caught a nail on the roulette wheel, and in one motion she tore the side of her skirt, and pulled the roulette wheel off its table and onto the ground, I was laughing wildly and decided I should let her do her thing in peace and returned to the bar. By now I had thrown the Idea of me not getting drunk completely out the door. If I wanted to be raving drunk in 3 hours when I get my tattoo, then I would be, and tough titty for anyone who thinks its a bad idea. 5 beers later and I was growing skeptical of my situation, If my blood was too thin, then I would bleed like a stuck pig when they start poking away at my arm. I washed down the Budweiser with a Bass Ale, yummy. I went outside for a ciggarette and to my delight, there was a sandwich shop across the street. I went in and ordered some anti-drunkness food. I had prevailed again.
Once more, I returned to the bar, ordered more over-priced beers, and played more guitar hero. With half an hour left before my turn in the hotseat, I went to go watch the artist at work. He was finishing up the tattoo on the same guy from before. It looked nice, I was slightly relieved. At this point the Circus kicked off it’s knife swallowing exhibition. This eased the tension even more, because I knew the man putting the swords down his throat was far more crazy than I. At last the moment had come and I was ready for my tattoo. When they learned that this was my first tattoo it was like a light went off above the booth that read VIRGIN SKIN, COME SEE THE DRUNK NEWBIE BLEED. For some reason I had drawn a crowd, maybe they were impressed with my choice of tattoos, could these people be Gonzos too?
There must have been 15 or 20 people crowded around me when the needle hit my skin, I showed no reaction, which must have disappointed some people because they wandered off. There was 1 hottie who stayed that caught my eye. She was a little Asian girl I had seen earlier getting a menagerie of rings on her back, two columns, about 6 inches apart, with 5 rings in each column, and a yellow ribbon tying it all together. The pain was hard to describe, but I’ll try. It was like having someone drag a little knife across your skin a couple hundred times, nothing bad. The tattoo was done in about an hour, even though I bled like a stuck pig. The bill was $100, and I gave him a 20 for a tip. He put a folded paper towel on my arm and taped it twice for good measure. I dashed to the bar and ordered two beers. I pounded the first and then the second.
"You ought to slow down there buddy" said the Bartender.
"I waste no time, only bitches" I said.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing, give me another beer, mas cerveza, ahora".
Stretching out I realized I was in for a long healing period. My arm was burning and I had no “medicine” to help me cope. The alcohol would have to do. It did...a few hours later I was drunk-as-a-skunk. I ended up getting ripped off by some wretched foreigner cabby who didn’t understand English, but that is a whole ‘nother story altogether.