Back Bitches!

Sooooo.  I took a year break.  I’d like to say it was because I was on some self enlightenment journey bullshit…but really, I just got lazy.

Alright, lets summarize the last year in a paragraph or so.

Well, I moved to Australia…there’s that.  Met a guy, we have a house, a parrot and a puppy, so you know…it’s pretty serious.  I’m working at Jed’s shop, tattooing soccer moms and rad kids as well.  Oh! I bought a 1961 Comet…it’s still in Canada but we’re working on getting it over.  Went to Punk Rock Bowling again (I’ll write a separate post about that one)…

…..ok that’s about it really.  I work 6 days a week, go to sleep by about 11:30 and wake up at 7:30.  I’m pretty much an old lady.  Anyways, my coffee is getting cold and I need to get ready for work.  But for all the new people reading this, take some time and read through the last entries, they’re pretty damn good if I do say so myself.

 

TCB or GFY

-R

Australia bound!

Just a quick blog entry for those not already on my Facebook or Twitter…or Instagram (Jeebus, social networking whore or what)….Tonight I leave for Aussieland!  I’ll be there until February 2nd, so you can bet your collective assess there will be posts either while I’m there or upon my return! I wish all my ‘Merican followers a Happy Thanksgiving (don’t get trampled at Black Friday sales!) and every one else a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
I’m gonna go play video games and eat popcorn until it’s time for the airport.

Later Muchachos!!!!!
-R

Save the ATM

Click the following link to go to The Tattoo Museum’s Blog, and support any way you can.  Although I’ve never met them personally (yet) I’ve heard nothing but great things about Hanky Panky and his missus.  Help them out!!!

Save the ATM.

“So….Do you have any normal friends?”

While in North Carolina earlier this month for Bud’s aunt’s wedding, the groom to be asked us if we had any “normal” friends.  I’m pretty sure the question arose after we’d told some of our more ridiculous endeavors – travelling to the Philippines, Punk Rock Bowling debauchery and such.

I answered with what seems to have become programmed in my mind: “well, normally we end up hanging out with other tattooers or the like because, frankly, when I go out to a bar or a pub ‘normal’ people get all up in my business and start grabbing my arms to see my tattoos or tell me about all the tattoos they have planned out….eventually.  It’s rare for us to go out and not have to talk about tattooing”.  That was that.  Don’t get me wrong, I adore talking about the history of tattooing or about the new fad in the business…to people in the business.  Mostly to keep it secret, people already know too much, but also because nine times out of ten Joe Schmo isn’t going to want to hear about how you were tattooed by someone who’s been tattooing twice as long as you’ve been alive and how he learned from Paul Rogers.  They just want to know if you watched the latest episode of LA Ink or Ink Masters or whatever show is the latest rage, and if you know Kat Von D, and hey, could you hook them up with a sweet tatty deal while you’re at it?  Anyways.  Conversation moved on, beer continued to be drank and in the next few days there was a wedding.  But it got me to thinking…do I really have any “normal” friends? and what the shit would be classified as “normal” now a days anyhow?

Let’s see here…

When I travel I’m perfectly happy with working however many days a  week and going about things situation normal.  Work, eat, sleep…occasional night out at the local pub.  Very rarely will I do the “tourist” thing.  I think it’s because I’d much rather prefer to just find things out on my own…go to the place the locals go to, that type of thing.  When in Canada I’m a hermit.  I don’t go out unless I have to, and, on the odd chance that I do…there’s only a small group of people I go out with.  Even then, I can’t wait to get back home to my dog and my coffee cup.  And trust me when I say that that group is far from “normal”…one of them eats fire!

But, on the other hand, to me normal IS tattooing or doing something tattoo related every day, or flying to Vegas for 30 hours to catch a Deadbolt show and hang out with the guys for a bit.  My absolute best friends live hundreds if not thousands of miles away, so we do what needs to be done to keep in touch (thank Jeebus for iMessage) and when we do actually get together, it tends to be ridiculous because we haven’t seen each other in a year and tend to try and make up for lost time.

Self (with giant balls) Bud, Jimi and Bev. This, to me anyhow, is normal.

So, the point of this entry.  Normal friends.  Well, I guess to me, the people I’ve met through tattooing and traveling and call friends ARE normal.  They just happen to be other crazy tattooers, punk rock journalists, third rate celebrities, fire eaters and a pet hippy here or there.  And when it all comes down to it, the stories I tell in person or here on the blog will, for the most part, border on the ridiculous.  Nobody wants to read or hear about how you woke up, drank some coffee, went to work, did some tattoos to pay the bills and then went home and painted flash for a couple hours, all the while drinking more coffee and smoking more cigarettes (which happens more often than not).  They will, however, get a kick out of the time you woke up in the wrong hotel room (wrong hotel even!) with a midget passed out in the closet.  Because that’s entertainment.

-Gracias!
R

Moonshine, Barbecue and North Carolina!

Rob Rutherford, Jason Keen, and myself after Rob and I stamped that Eagle on Jason’s chest.

So after the debacle that was trying to get to the States, I’d made it to Chicago and caught the boys’ show.  It was great.  I think.  There’s a few grey areas.  They had some killer bands play before them; Little Red and the Howling Wolves, The Hellbillys and the Krank Daddies.  If ever you guys get the chance to catch any of them live, I suggest you do.  You wont be disappointed.  We all got back to the hotel around 1 or 2 and then when I last looked at the clock before closing my eyes it was about quarter to 5 in the morning.  I was going to cab it with the guys back to the airport in the morning, and their flights left a couple hours before mine, so we had to leave kinda early…safe to say it was a bit of a rough start.  Tank was flying back to St Louis and Harv and Burns were flying back to San Diego.  Me, I was headed to North Carolina to hang out with Rob Rutherford, hit the Greensboro show and then visit Jeff Cohen.

So, on the plane, passed out, woke up when it landed in Raleigh.  Rob picked me up at the airport and we drove about an hour to his place.

Rob Rutherford is by far one of the best human beings one could have the honor of knowing.  About as tall as Bud, with long hair and a beard that would make any Canadian lumberjack envious, he looks like one tough SOB.  Not so secretly, though, he’s one of the nicest people in the business.  I’d come to know Rob through Ernie and had talked to him pretty regularly over the last couple years over Facebook and the occasional phone call.  He’d sent me a machine a couple years ago, pink with heart hologram coils.  About as girly as it gets.  Which is exactly opposite of how it runs.  The machine is a beast.

Anyways.

We spent a few days out in Rob’s build shed, where I’d watch him work his magic, turning loose side plates and bits of metal into some of the best machines I’ve ever owned.  I don’t really want to go into too much detail, I think machine building is something we need to keep a close guarded secret.  Although, lately it seems everyone and their step aunt are machine builders now.  I believe everyone who calls themselves a “tattooer” needs to know the basics behind what makes a good machine.  How to wind coils, the relations between spring tension and how it effects everything else etc etc, but I don’t want to do it full time.  There are plenty of amazing machine builders out there whom I’ll gladly give my dollars to.

So it went that way for about a week, watching, learning…smoking a bajillion cigarettes a day.  I’d talked to Rob about putting a Coleman style dragon somewhere on my arm, a quick, simple little filler.  But somehow I ended up getting a modified version Owen Jensen’s “Pharaoh’s Horses” on my stomach.  Yes, I know, the design came well before Jensen…his was just the one we used for reference.

The Greensboro convention was going on while I was in NC and Rob and I made the hour and a half drive to go hang out there for the weekend.  Our friends Jason and Ash also made the trip.  Jason had messaged me a few months back asking if I’d be keen on doing a chest eagle colab on him with Rob at the show.  Uh, hell yes.  Day one of the convention was pretty slow, hotter than hell but good all around.  The hotel it was in tried to tell people that it was so hot because all the power units were pulling too much energy to run the AC….we all called bullshit but put up with it.  Normally I don’t do shows, I’d much rather visit with tattooers in shops or in a pub or restaurant…conventions are too busy for me.  I didn’t (and still don’t) know many of the artists that were there, but got to hang out with John Williams and John Slater in their booth, both rad dudes.  Sailor Eddie Jr from Philly was there, and I got to talking to him a bit about some of the people we both knew.  I actually ended up getting a panther from him to fill a spot on my arm that bruised right down to the elbow.  A month and a half later it’s nearly done healing, but solid as hell.

Somehow on the second day of the show I’d been asked to be one of the judges for the end of day competitions.  Mylanta.  It was cool, and I probably made more of a big deal about it in my head than justified, but I was nervous as hell.  I mean, really…I’m a nobody…been tattooing for (just recently) 4 years, how was I supposed to judge tattoos?!  Rob assured me it was easy and gave me some pointers.  I drank some more whiskey.

With the way I was “raised” in the tattoo world it was hard for me to judge the competitions.  I immediately disliked anything without an outline, or too little black shading, and my idea of what a “traditional” tattoo is was apparently much different than what the people submitting their pieces thought it meant.  I mean, I couldn’t tell these people that I didn’t really like their work,  obviously they like it enough to get up the courage to walk in front of a bunch of people they don’t know and show off their tattoo,  so I’d just say “thanks” write down the score on a sheet of paper and move onto the next one.  On the other end of the spectrum, there was some INCREDIBLE work on that stage – a few full body suits, tons of beautiful back pieces and full arm/leg sleeves.  One guy even had his ears tattooed.  We were judging the “large color” portion of the competition when this guy walked up on stage and I could tell by the smirk on his face that something was going to be different.  Next thing I know, his pants are down around his ankles and I’m looking at a a Crown Royal velvet bag around this guys…well…you know.  Well then.  Crown WAS one of my favorite whiskeys.  The tattoo itself, though, was (and still is) one of the nicest tattoos I have ever seen.  A golden dragon that stretched across the stomach and down both legs, with flowers and background that tied in perfectly to the back piece and up onto the arms.  Solid, flowed perfectly with the body and was intensely bright.  I found out afterwards that it was done by James Vaughn, who apparently is on one of those tattoo shows I never watch and couldn’t care less about.  But the tattoo….that was killer.

Left side of photo done by Rob Rutherford, Right side done by myself. Tattoo on Jason Keen.

After the competition Rob and I set out to tattoo Jason.  The booths were super small, and made for a bit of a hassle trying to arrange something in a way that Rob and I could both work at the same time.  I actually did the majority of my share of the tattoo standing up and leaning over the rail that divided the booths in two.  It was rad though, and Jason sat like a champ.  3 hours total with a couple smoke breaks scattered through out, Jason walked in a cool guy, with some nice tattoos, and left the convention floor that night a man with one tough chest eagle.

The next day was a short one, we stopped by the show to say our farewells and headed back to Rob’s place.

Panther I put on Tommy

A few days after the show I rented a car and drove down to visit Jeff Cohen in Havelock.  The Custom Tattoo Company is a stone’s throw from an active military base and there were fighter jets flying right over the shop on the regular.  They told me I’d get used to the sound…I didn’t.  That shit was loud.  With tons of flash on the racks when you first walk in and a fancy touch screen computer on the wall with even more, there’s lots to keep your eyes busy.  The shop has two artists there, Tommy and Jeff’s daughter, Lauren.  Between the two of them they’ve got you covered, putting out solid, real tattoos.  Lauren put an eagle on the back of my leg up near the knee…I didn’t like her much while it was being done, but I’m stoked on the tattoo.  She nailed it.

Jeff Cohen is like a walking tattoo encyclopedia.  Seriously.  Working on both coasts and nearly everywhere in between, he’s got some incredible stories and history to go along.  It’s really kind of hard to explain him, though. Looks normal enough, and once you get to know him you’ll quickly consider him to be one of the coolest people you’ll ever know. Everything that happens in the shop will remind him of a story from when he was back on the Pike or when he worked in Chicago or wherever else.  That is, if he’s not sleeping.  It’s actually an ongoing joke among those who knows him.  We all try to grab photos of him sleeping.  Creepy? …yeah, a bit…but hilarious.  When we weren’t hanging out at the shop Jeff showed me around Havelock and it seemed like everywhere we went people knew him and would stop and say hello.  I guess that’s what happens when you’ve been in one spot for 30 years.  People get to know you.

You really can’t mention North Carolina without talking about the barbecue.  I’m pretty sure it’s a mortal sin, actually.   Everywhere you go there are barbecue joints, either chain run or mom and pop shops.  There’s a place called Wilbur’s Barbecue on US 70 in Goldsboro.  Dear baby Jesus.  Best pork sandwich I’ve ever had.  (There’s a dirty joke in there somewhere…I know).  Actually, Bud and I took a week trip to NC for his aunt’s wedding and made a point to stop at this place.  And buy their barbecue sauce.  Because, really, it’s heavenly goodness in a bottle.  If ever you’re close, go there, order a sandwich (slaw on the side) and enjoy.

I’d spent 4 or 5 days there and it was a great visit, but being around all this tattooing and not working was starting to take toll on me.  I headed back to Rob’s place for a night and then was on my way back to Calgary.

A quick rant about Tattoo Television Shows.

With more shows popping up there’s more complaining on tattooers parts about how the TV corporations are raping our industry.  Well, here’s where I’m at:

Do I agree with all the shows? hell no. Does it cause me to lose sleep over it because I’m so upset about it? Nope. My insomnia takes care of the lack of sleep part of my life. There is nothing NOTHING we will be able to do about this. People will always try to find a way to make money off of tattooing if they can’t make money tattooing. Be it tv shows, magazines, various supply companies, whatever. Simple as that. Any publicity, positive or negative, is just that. Publicity. It is up to us to keep our heads down and work and do what we love.

Yes, we all hate the shows, yes we hate that it’s created a customer that expects too much for too little, or assumes everything is as easy as it is on the show or one that thinks they know everything about what we do… whatever. BUT. It also brings customers in the door. There’s no denying it. Hell, I’d love to tattoo bad ass panthers, eagles, clippers, reapers whatever all day. But 90% of my clients want some bullshit yuppy design they found on pinterest or google or whatever. Customers who, 5 or 10 years ago, might never have thought about a tattoo in the first place, but after seeing it on television decided to get one. Their dollars are just as good as the person wanting a traditional pinup. I have bills to pay.

I think it’s our responsibility, as tattooers, to educate our customers in a way that still keeps our craft close to our hearts, but also lets people know that there is more to this than glitz and glamour. However that may be. For me its usually as simple as saying “nope, don’t watch the shows, that’s not real tattooing. That’s Hollywood”.

I am a baby in this craft. I’ve been doing this for 4 years. But I’m lucky enough to know the people I know and be able to call them friends. It’s the responsibility of the younger generation, such as myself (and I believe, anyone tattooing less than 10 years) to do our part in keeping tradition strong. It will never be like the “old days” I’ve been told so many stories about. That’s a pill we all have to swallow. 

Let the greedy people do their thing, get their moment of fame…and then figure out a way to make it work for you. Put out the best fucking kanji you can on the soccer mom who wants to know if you know Kat Von D, or write the bible verse on the ribs copied almost directly from some bullshit image on google. Make your money. Make the system work for you. 

To me it seems that people (well, maybe the ones I talk to, not everyone) seem to forget that tattooers are movers and shakers. Hustlers (for lack of a better term). As much as we might bitch and complain, we are in a customer service industry. We are whores. Really. We pitch our ideas/designs in hopes that someone will be willing to give us their money. Tattoos are not a need. They are a commodity. If it takes there being bullshit shows on television to stir up the general population and get them to sit in my chair and get tattooed. Well, unfortunately, so be it.

Stay classy.
-R

Handcuffs and Whiskey Sours (it sounds classier than “GFY Winnipeg Customs bitch”)

I was going to add this in with a post about the Deadbolt show in Chicago and the following trip to North Carolina…but really, it’s too good (see ridiculous) to not warrant its own blog entry.  Lets begin shall we…

Initially I had planned to fly from Calgary to Chicago, spend a couple of days there (get tattooed, catch a Deadbolt show, recover from said show) and then fly to North Carolina and then after a couple of weeks fly over to Oregon to pick up a 1967 Galaxie and drive it back home.  So I only bought a one way ticket (mistake number one).  Tank wanted a Shrunken-head Elvis tattoo and I was going to tack it on him before the show on the Sunday so I brought some gear with me.  Nothing major, a couple of machines and power unit, some color, and 1 liner and 1 shader set up (mistake number two).  Flights were supposed to go from Calgary to Winnipeg, then Winnipeg to Chicago.  Simple.

When heading into the States, you go through customs at your last Canadian destination, so I flew from Calgary to Winnipeg no problem.  There wasn’t much time between flights, so I hauled ass to the other side of the airport, cleared through TSA no worries and then walked to the customs agent.  Normal questions followed:
“What do you do for a living”
“Tattooer”
“Where are you going?”
“Chicago for a couple of days then off to North Carolina and then over to Oregon”
“How long are you staying?”
“Not too sure…going to be driving a car back I think”
“How much money do you have”
“Almost 3 grand cash and a credit card”
“Go see secondary inspection please”

shit.

So I went through the glass doors and into the secondary inspection agent.  Looking at the broad behind the desk I should have known then I wouldn’t be flying to Chicago that day.  I’m normally a nice person (really! I am!) and try not to pass judgement right away.  But really.  About as tall as she was around, greasy hair (and not in the cool pompadour way that I style) and rather…homely looking, she was nasty and rude right from the start.  The agent asked me (after already searching my backpack and pulling my luggage off the plane) why I had a set up.  I told her the truth, I was going to tattoo my friend before his band played a show in Chicago.  She asked how much I was charging him…”I dunno, a beer?” and then she told me she didn’t like my attitude and I was a suspicious person.  At which point she told me I was going to be detained and questioned…after she put me in handcuffs.  Serious.

I was placed in handcuffs and walked back out to the initial customs check, in front of a group of people and led into a small room that’s pretty much exactly like the interrogation rooms on tv.  Desk, chair, mirror.  She let me sit there for a bit, still in handcuffs, while she went and grabbed my luggage and another customs agent.

Without getting into too much detail, they interrogated me for nearly 3 hours.  They were able to pull up all my travel history (even though I told them everywhere I’ve been in the last 3 years anyways) and somehow found out that I had looked into applying for temporary residency and (eventually) a possible Green Card into America.  Mistake number 3.  Seeing as I am apparently a suspicious person, they assumed I was going to stay illegally.  I tried, again, to tell them that I was going to be driving a car back to Canada and that’s why I didn’t have a return ticket.  They asked me for a bill of sale.  I tried to explain to them that I didn’t have a bill of sale yet, as I hadn’t actually purchased the car yet.  Next they asked for proof of Canadian citizenship.  Because, you know, my passport, driver’s license, birth certificate, social insurance card, credit card and health care card weren’t proof enough.  They asked if I had any other ties to Canada, and when I asked what they meant, they said I needed rental or lease agreements, credit card bills, phone bills etc.  Yeah, I totally carry all that shit with me all the time.  Are you kidding me?!

After nearly three hours of bullshit, they allowed me to “withdraw my application” for admittance to the United States based on a “7A1 charge”.  I wasn’t outright banned from the United States, but I was told that for the next 5 years I have to travel with a binder of proof of ties to Canada.  Bills, rental agreements, tax returns etc. I was fingerprinted and photographed and sent on my way.

I had more than missed the connection to Chicago, so was unable to cancel the flight and therefore had to eat the airfare.  No big deal.  But I did have to buy another flight back to Calgary.  Which didn’t leave for another 7 hours.  Hellloooooooo bar.  Not everyone in Winnipeg sucks…the bartender felt bad and there was a little extra whiskey in each drink.

I finally got back home to Calgary around 11pm at night.  I started printing off all the paperwork (take that trees!) and booked another round of flights leaving Saturday, this time with a return ticket.  I did some research on what this “7A1” charge was…apparently it’s more common than not.  Really, all it is, is a vague way of saying that you, the traveler, didn’t prove to the customs agent beyond a doubt that you weren’t going to the United States with intentions of staying there illegally.

So, Saturday afternoon rolls around and I head to the airport, again, this time with a ticket for a direct flight to Chitown.  Ready to wow the customs agent with all my fancy paperwork proving ties to Canada I walked up:
“Where are you going”
“Chicago and North Carolina”
“How much money do you have?”
“about 2 grand and a credit card”
“Ok, have fun”

wait…what.  They didn’t even ask for anything.  I was pissed.  But! I was on my way to Chicago to hang out for a day with the guys and then go to North Carolina.  Which is a different blog entry all together.  I can say one thing though, I will pay an extra couple of dollars per flight to avoid flying to Winnipeg ever again.  Ever.

Stay classy muchachos!
-R

Let me tell you about my down under….My trip to Australia

January of this year I had the incredible opportunity to head over to Australia.  I had known Jed Hill on the ol’ FB for 3 or 4 years, and we’d talked fairly regularly considering the distance.  He’d been telling me to come over and visit for the longest time and I kept saying “yeah, ok, eventually” type thing.  I was sitting in a bar in Long Island NY, just received news that my great-uncle was ill and in the hospital and probably wasn’t going to be around much longer, and pretty much said “fuck it, I’m going to Australia”.  I’m really good at shotgun decisions.

So January 3rd I boarded yet another plane.  Flew to San Francisco (by far, one of the worst airports I’ve been in short of the ones in the Philippines) and then from San Fran onto a 14 hour flight to Sydney, Australia.  Just enough whiskey to make me sleep, not enough to make me feel like shit in the morning.  From Sydney it was a quick hour or so long flight to Melbourne.  With the time change and everything it was now the 5th of January.  I got off the plane and stood in the customs line for what seemed like forever, all the while texting back and forth with Jed.
“Are you through customs yet?”
“Nope”
“What about now?”
“Almost”

So I got through the first lineup, grabbed my bags, and went through a second lineup.
“When you get through the gates, turn right, we’re here”

Jed and Harro in the back of the limo…style!

Holy hell were “they” ever.  Drowsy and a bit grumpy I headed through the doors and was greeted by “ARE YOU RANDI?!” shouted at the top of their Aussie lungs.  A phrase that I heard almost daily for the entire time there.  Think Austin Powers…you’ll get where they were coming from.  Standing there were Wayne, Harro, Glen and Jed.  A welcoming party if ever there was one.  Any grumpiness was gone.  They all grabbed my bags, and Glen gave me a much-needed cigarette.  Jed lead the way through the doors and to the pick up area “wait till you see what Harro got ya”.  About 10 minutes later a stretch Bel-Air limo pulls up and we get in.  KILLER!  I found out right quick that over in Australia, your Jack and Coke comes pre mixed conveniently in cans.  A little too much Coke to Jack for my liking but still quite delicious.  I also learned that every stereotype about the Aussies being able to hold their liquor is true.  Don’t get me wrong, they party hard, and work even harder, but holy hell.  45 minute limo ride to Ballarat and I was well on my way to being buzzed.  Ok, ok…I was buzzed.

At the shop I finally got to sit and observe (through hazy eyes).  The shop is well laid out, 5 stations up front (room for 6 if needed) and a private room in the back.  Red walls covered in flash from around the world.  Omar and the Howlers playing on high.  It’s one of the few shops I’ve walked into and instantly felt welcome.  Maybe it was the fact that I’d been talking to Jed for so long, maybe it was the Jack Daniels, who knows.  What I do know was that there was never a sense of nervousness when I got there.  Darcy, seeing what condition we were in, got us watermelon and strawberries.  I remember thinking “I could get used to this” .  So we hung out for a bit in the shop, Jed fell asleep on one of the tables and we drew on his face with sharpies.  You know, because we were all mature and responsible and stuff.

Once I’d gotten over the jet lag and was back on track, Darcy and Mango wanted to take me out for a night, show me what Ballarat had to offer.  We started with a couple warm up drinks at her place (which had already become a home away from home…away from home). And headed to the Little Bridge hotel.  Which, oddly enough, is not a hotel at all.  Weird.  I’m not one for clubs, strange as it may seem given my line of work and the company I tend to keep, I’m not a big fan of large groups of people, which is why you’re more likely to find me at a local pub or someone’s backyard or off to the side if I’m hanging out with the boys.  Large groups of people kind of get on my nerves.  Large groups of drunken people most definitely do.  I was punchy, the bar was full well beyond limit and people were looking at me the wrong way.  Or maybe they weren’t, maybe it was the whiskey and beer, who knows…but I was fixin to get into more trouble than it would have been worth.  So we decided to leave and try another place.  I was making my way through the mess of people when I caught a stray punch to the eye.  Killer.  We left Little Bridge, headed over to the Karova lounge for a few.  The bar itself was decent, the bouncers…dicks.  You couldn’t smoke inside, so we headed out for a dart but were apparently on the wrong side of the door.  Words were exchanged, Mango told a not so delicate lady that she was a fat bitch and before we knew it we were leaving.  Neat how that happens.  By this time my eye had started to swell a bit and was getting a little bit of a shine to it.  Nothing serious, mind…but it was a nice “Welcome to Australia” gift from some random dude.  Thanks random dude.  We piled into a cab and called it a night.

It was great being in a shop like Jed’s.  I quickly made friends that I now can call family.  Everyone wanted to work, everyone was passionate. There were 5 main artists there, Jed, his son Glen, Chris Reid and his son Cayleb and then Stuart.  It was like a family.  A mixed up, crazy family.  Practical jokes, snide remarks and off-color comments about Cayleb’s hairstyle or choice of music.  It was amazing.  There was a never-ending stream of people “popping in” for a visit, most of them didn’t even get tattooed, they just came in, listened to music, watched people get tattooed…and brought food.  There’s a coffee joint around the corner and up the block a bit called Portico that Darcy’s mom owns, and I would pop over for a coffee whenever I could.  At night it turns into a killer place to hang out and listen to some great live music.  Many a times Darc and I would just stroll into the kitchen in the back and make ourselves something to eat.  I love that place.

Darcy’s leg by moi.

The cool thing about being over at Jed’s was that his shop was so well-known for quality and solid work, you rarely had people coming in with ridiculous requests.  And those that did were told to fuck off and find somewhere else.  Seriously.  No Tribal allowed, minimum of $150 for lettering.  Business.  More often than not people would just come in, say they had so much to spend, and then that was that.  I did notice, though, that most Australians have large tattoos.  You don’t really see a lot of people with one or two tiny ones and that’s it….they’ve got sleeves, full legs, back pieces, whatever.  Commitment.

During my time in Australia I improved so much as a tattooer it was insane.  And, at the risk of being hokey as fuck, I give full credit to Jed and the people at the shop.  He’d watch, or look at pieces I was working on and give pointers here and there.  “Try this…next time, attack it this way”.  For whatever reason, it just set in.  I remember one night I wanted to tattoo Darcy.  Jed all but did the tattoo.  We knew we wanted to do a gypsy, but after that Jed pretty much said “do this one, change this, don’t change that, get rid of that, these colors” .  It was by far one of the most nerve-wracking tattoos I’d ever done.  The next day Jed looked at it and said “well, if you’d told me you’d done it drunk I would have said it was okay”….my heart dropped.  Then he busted out laughing and told me he was kidding…Jesus.  I almost cried! Dick.

The ever lovely “Cindy Ray”

At some point in time during my stay there Jed had bought a fancy new car – a Chrysler 300 – and we had to drive to some place past Melbourne to go pick it up.  On the way back we stopped in to visit by far one of the coolest ladies I’ve ever met.  The lovely Bev Robinson/aka “Cindy Ray”.  I remember reading articles about her before I’d even gotten into tattooing.  If you don’t know the name and even make the insinuation you’re an “old school” tattooer (hate that term by the way…old school.  I think “traditional” holds more weight, but I can’t speak for everyone), I highly suggest you rethink that.  I was stoked.  The three of us sat there around her kitchen table drinking tea and smoking cigarettes.  I didn’t say much, I was in awe.  There was some talk of tattooing, but mostly just general every day stuff between her and Jed.  She’d just got an iPad so we showed her the basics, but shortly after she went back to hand writing letters to people she’d been keeping in touch with over the years.  What a great day…simple, normal…nothing crazy.  Those are some of the best times though, just hanging out and observing.  Obligatory photos followed and then we were back off to Ballarat.

Things went as such for a while.  More practical jokes, more blues music, more friends.  “Family” dinners on Sundays when we could.  About a month before I was set to leave I had the chance to do a full torso  eagle on a kid as a collaboration with Jed.  I got in around 1, and started taking a Sharpie to Pete’s guts.

“You want to avoid the nipples?”
“Nah, I should be able to handle it”
“Righto”

So we drew on him for about an hour or two, getting it to the point where we both were happy with it….and then ordered a steak dinner.  I think it was probably around 7 or 8 at night be the time we’d actually started on Pete.

Holy shit what a trooper.  Two tattooers working on him at the same time.  His third tattoo and right on the guts.  I think we finished the outline in about an hour.  Smoke break, and right back at it, we worked on him for a few more hours before he’d called it quits.   What a champ.  We colored in his belly button black for fuck sake.  He came back two weeks later and we worked on him for another 2 or 3 hours, and then called it.  This kid is a machine.

It was time for me to leave Australia.  I was heartbroken.  I’d decided to have a going away bash at the pub down the street from the place I’d been staying.  At first it was “hey, if you wanna show up, rad”..but by the time it actually happened it was a full on dress up party.  And I was a dinosaur.  There was a Slash, a Hugh H and Playboy Bunny, a kangaroo, a Mexican gangster (Mango), a Pirate (Darcy), a Hippie, a Zombie Princess, and Elf and a Leprechaun.  I have no doubt in my mind that everyone else in the pub thought we were crazy.  Darcy, Mango, Young Cayleb and I had started in on the beverages early, and by the time we got to the pub at 9 or 10…well, it was a good night.  The owner of the pub let us borrow the grill and pretty much take over the back patio, so if you walked by or happened to be driving up to the liquor shelf (oh yeah! they have drive up booze stores!) all you saw was a bunch of adults dressed up and well off their tree.  It was awesome.  We shut down the place and a few of us headed back to my place for a night-cap.  I think everyone finally left around 4 or 5 in the morning….what a great night.

Pete’s guts. 2 sits so far, more when I get back!

Myself, Darcy and Mango. I miss them tons, and can’t wait to see them again soon.

There was about a week left after the party, and I worked right up till the last day.  People were stopping in to say good-bye, get tattooed.  It was weird.  I’ve worked in quite a few spots around the globe, but I was having a hard time dealing with leaving here.  I cried.  Like a bitch.  Jed and everyone at the shop had helped me along with tattooing more than I think they know, and I can’t thank them enough for it.  And the people in general made me feel like part of a family.  I still talk to them more than I do most people on this side of the planet (save for Bud and H and a few others) and can’t wait to go back.

Well, there you have it folks, the last 2 or 3 years summed up into a few short blog posts (most of which have been somewhat..uh…edited for content).  There were a few more trips to Vegas for Deadbolt shows or Punk Rock Bowling this year, some more trips to Oregon…but they were pretty much the same as I’ve already mentioned.  Great people, good times, and too much booze.  I guess I can always go back and tell those stories when I’ve run out of things to write about I suppose.

Next up is the gong show of getting turned away at the border trying to get to Chicago to catch the boys play (and possibly a bit of the actual show), then my time here so far in North Carolina!!

Stay Classy, Stay Thirsty!
-R

“If you don’t get tattooed by Lance McLain you’re an idiot” – My trip to Hawaii.

For the first time in quite a while,  October of last year I took a trip for an actual vacation to Hawaii for a couple of weeks with the family.  While I had every intention of doing nothing but relaxing, surfing and uh, sampling the local selection of Mai Tais, I had one thing that I absolutely HAD to do.  I wanted a tattoo from Lance McLain.  When I’d told Bud I was headed to Hawaii the first thing out of his mouth was “if you don’t get tattooed by Lance you’re an idiot”…well then, that settled that.  My momma didn’t raise no fool!

So for the first week I spent my time on the beaches and in the bars of the hotels in Ka’anapali, Maui.  Doing tourist stuff, which was weird to me.  With work I seem to always be on the go (entirely by choice, I’m not complaining) so when I actually have time off, I like to do absolutely nothing.  Read a book, watch a movie, waste time on the Ol’ FB.  But the fam-damily wanted to go see the island, go to the aquarium, stuff like that.  I followed along, and am glad I did.  Beautiful paradise, Hawaii.

We then hopped a plane over to Oahu, where this time all I wanted to do was get out and about.  Pearl Harbor, Punchbowl, a visit with the Sucher’s, Lance McLain.

If you’re on Oahu, and DON’T see Pearl Harbor…well, you suck.  For a history nut like myself one day didn’t feel like nearly enough time to really check it all out.  Sure, you can do the guided tour type stuff all in one day, but I would have liked to do some more looking around, just by myself.  It’s eerily beautiful there, and there’s plenty of benches along the pathways to just sit and observe.  I like to people watch.  Not in a creepy stalker way, just kind of observe what’s going on around me.

We had just left the theater showing a brief video about the attack on Pearl Harbor and the mood was subdued.  People who were laughing and making jokes while waiting in line were now sullen, quiet on the water taxi over to the USS Arizona Memorial.  It’s an intense feeling.  Once you get out there, there’s a heavy feeling, kinda pushes down on your shoulders.  They ask you on the ride over to not stop to take photos until you’re in the actual memorial, whether it be for safety reasons or respect I’m not sure.  But there were a group of Japanese kids, maybe my age, maybe a bit younger, standing in front of the memorial doing the stereotypical peace sign pose with big goofy grins on their faces.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I realize the attack on Pearl Harbor is just as much as part of their history as it is American’s, but this pissed me off like you wouldn’t believe.  We were standing over the tombs of nearly 1200 officers and crewmen who were killed or trapped when the Arizona was sunk after the forward magazine exploded as a result from a direct torpedo hit.  Nearly half of the total lives lost on that day.  And here they are, making light of it all.  I walked over, told them not so nicely to show some fucking respect and stop acting like idiots.  I’m not sure if they understood me, but they understood the tone in my voice.  Not my proudest moment, or maybe it was.  For the entire time on the memorial there were stares and whispers, and for all the wrong reasons.  People kept looking at me, pointing. Great.  Not what I wanted.  I was fixing to get off the memorial, I’d paid my respects to the fallen, stood in silence at the wall for a few minutes reading the names, but I wanted out of there.  Partially because I was tired of the whispers, but mostly because the mood was heavy, draining.  On the water taxi ride back an older gentleman approached me and took a seat.  “I saw what you did back there.  I wasn’t here when we got hit, but I fought in horror that followed.  Thank you.”  That right there made the pointing and staring worth it.  What I did wasn’t to draw attention, to cause a scene…it was what I thought was the right thing to do at the moment, turns out, I wasn’t the only one.

Done at Black Cat Cafe in Honolulu in 1944. On Sterling R. Cale, SGM United States Army (Retired) born November 29-1921. A Pearl Harbor survivor. 1st Marine Division at Guadalcanal. Transferred to the US Army in 1948 and saw duty with the 5th Regimental Combat Team in Korea from ’50-51. As an Army Sergeant Major and State Department Civilian, he saw duty in Vietnam from ’55-’74. He retired with 57 years of Government service in March 2005

We’d gotten back to the island, toured the USS Bowfin, and Ford Island where all the aircraft hangers are, some still with bullet holes in the upper windows of the buildings from the attack, and made our way to the exit.  Off to the side there was a lineup, at first I thought it was to get into the gift store but quickly realized it was to meet survivors of the attack, talk to them personally.  One of the men sitting at the table looked at me and said “well, you’ve got quite a few tattoos don’t ya? I’ve got one, look”.  Now THAT was a tattoo.  A pin-up in a hat and skirt, with “Honolulu” written underneath.  We talked for a bit and he told me the story behind the tattoo :
“Originally she was naked, just the outline….I think it cost me about 50 cents. Then they decided you couldn’t have naked women tattooed on you, so I had to go back and get the lei and the grass skirt. It hurt a lot more, and I still went back and got the hat and the lettering done after that. I think in total she cost me about $2.50. Men were coming out of the place, passing out, or throwing up…or they’d slam some wine…me, I just had a cola and a hot dog. Sure, it hurt, but they were being dramatic”  Tough as guts he was.

The next day I’d made an appointment to go see Lance.  Well, not really an appointment. “Well, you just show up at open and we’ll see what we can do” Ok, cool.  Lance McLain is a hidden gem.  Most don’t know about him.  Everyone should.

In the early 70s when he was still in the Navy he’d gotten his first tattoo from Tennessee Dave.  “Now, I didn’t know much about tattooing you see, but I figured, what better place to find a tattoo shop than the seedy part of town?” RAD.  So he got a peacock on his right arm, and it still looks killer, I wish I’d gotten a photo of it actually.  After he left the Navy he moved to Hawaii to learn under Malone.  He’d only actually met Jerry once or twice, but would work at China Sea with Rollo until he bought Malone’s shop in Waikiki.  Eventually he made his way up to Wahiawa and opened Dragon Tattoo, which is where he’s still at.  Bright green on the outside and floor to ceiling flash hand painted by Lance or Malone and a few others.  There’s no shortage of stuff to drool over.  There’s a small wait area, with a bench along the left wall where people can sit and wait.  Lance actually tattoos in an even smaller room separated by a steel gate.  Yep, a gate.  That locks.  Not because of questionables, he said, but mainly because he doesn’t like people coming in and hovering over his shoulder while he works.

We’d talked while he was getting the stencil ready, I’d chosen a sunset over Diamond Head with a banner reading “Hawaii” off the wall, and he’d asked about how I got into tattooing and what brought me to Hawaii.  Small talk.

Lance is meticulous when it comes to tattooing.  He’s meticulous when it comes to anything really.  The stencil alone must have taken 20 minutes to get on, as he wanted to measure the space it’d go (on the back of my right arm) and made sure that I knew that because of the shape of the eagle Ernie had put above my elbow the year before, the tattoo might look crooked…but he took out a ruler and showed me he’d put the stencil on straight.  Locking the gate and leaving my brother out in the waiting room, we got to it.  Watching Lance set up took almost as long as the stencil.  He’s super specific.  Color caps go here, machines go there, gloves go on in this order.  He’d just switched to using pre-made needles not long before I got tattooed and we talked about which brands we’d tried, which ones we liked the best, which ones were awful.  Tattoo talk.  He still prefers to use the ones he builds himself though.  He’d asked if I was a member of the National Tattoo Association and I’d said no, but I was thinking about it.
“Well you see, they have these forms you have to fill out every year..renewals I guess you’d call them.  Send in some money, pay your dues, you know, that sort of stuff.  Well anyways, on the form there’s a spot for a nickname.  And I thought, ‘nickname? why would I have a nickname?’ But I thought I’d have some fun, so here I was, filling out my paper work and I can’t remember what it was, but there was a box beside the work bench that said ‘Never Fade’ and I thought sure..why not…so I wrote down ‘Lance Never Fade McLain’…I wonder if anyone noticed”

Making sure the stencil is on straight

The tattoo he put on me took nearly 3 hours for something about the size of my palm.  Mostly because of the stories.  He concentrates so intensely on what he’s doing that I would ask a question, he’d say “hold on, gotta finish this line here” and then would answer.  Its one of the nicest pieces on me, and I’m honored to have it.  Corny? Sure..but it’s true.  After the tattoo was done we sat around and talked a bit more.  He’s got a ledger that he’ll write the client’s name, the design, how much he charged and how long it took him. “I like you, I’m going to dot the ‘i’ in your name with a heart”.

We got to talking about painting flash, and flash in general for that matter.  There was so much to look at and he’d had more in the back.  “Flash is like vegetables, Randi, it has a shelf life.  If there’s a sheet up that isn’t selling, take it down, replace it, and put it back up in a couple of months, see if that works.” The man is a genius when it comes to tattooing.  His analogies about this business never end.  I had called him not too long ago to wish him a happy birthday and we got to talking about this blog.  “Just don’t get overwhelmed, keep your feet on the ground. Tattooing is like eating a meal at a buffet. You see all the food and you want it all, so you pile it on your plate and you get back to the table and feel overwhelmed that you need to eat it all. So you eat and eat and eat and then you feel ill, and it takes you a few days to recover. It’s the same with tattooing, you need to be careful that you don’t get overwhelmed with the life, the people and customers, the politics, the conventions…because then you wake up one morning and you hate tattooing. That’s why I keep to myself and just work and do the tattoos the way I do them, so I don’t hate it”  Seriously, he’s like a Zen Master.

Tattoo on me, by Lance.

By the time we finished up, it was late and the sun had gone down.  My brother wanted to get tattooed so we made plans to come back the next day, coffee in hand.  Watching Tyler get tattooed just made me appreciate Lance even more.  He carried on conversations with my brother about heavy-duty mechanics or football or whatever.  You can tell watching him work that he gives it his all with every piece.  Nothing is ever done half assed.  After another long day we headed back to the hotel, Tyler was stoked with the piece he got and the experience. “Man, that guy was rad!”  I don’t think he really knows how cool of a deal it really was.

The next day I wanted to try to find where China Sea used to be.  Lance had told me that it was still a shop, but the current owner had all but destroyed it and was almost never open.  Sadly, he was right.  I’d found my way to 1033 Smith Street in Chinatown and found the shop, which was now called “Eternal Tattoo”.  Fuck.  Darkened windows with cheesy spider webs on the windows, a plastic skeleton on the seat inside.  There were three sun bleached sheets of Jerry Collins’ (Sailor Jerry) flash in the window that had been torn out of a magazine or book forever ago.  Other than that there wasn’t a single mention of the history that place held within.  What a shame.  I don’t even want to put the photo I have of the place up here it was so disheartening.

Bummed and slightly pissed off to be honest, we made our way to Punch Bowl Cemetery to pay respects to Sailor Jerry.  I’ve always thought Cemeteries had a weird beauty to them, but this place was on a whole different level.  The POW/MIA memorial is something I think everyone should visit if they’re in the area.  It’s a different feeling than at the Arizona Memorial.  Still heavy, but different.  If that makes sense.  Jerry’s grave is a ways to the right of the memorial, for the life of me I can’t remember the zone or plot number, but if you ask anyone there, they’ll point you in the right direction.  According to the groundskeeper I asked, there’s quite a few of us “tattooed folks” who go visit the grave site.  It’s a good hearing that, really.

The last day in Hawaii I paid a visit to Dave and Peggy Sucher of Tattoo Hawaii in Honolulu before I headed for the airport.  I’d grabbed a bite to eat at the Vietnamese restaurant downstairs from them, waiting for the shop to open and when I got upstairs Dave was sitting on the couch facing the doorway.  The open sign still wasn’t on, but he opened the door and said “Hello Randi, c’mon in”.  I was kind of taken aback by it.  I’d talked to them occasionally on Facebook, but didn’t really know them then.  But he knew me, or at least what I looked like.  I guess that’s what happens when you blow up your profile with photos when you’re bored or otherwise wasting time on the FB.  Anyways.

The shop is bright…like, yellow bright.  But it works.  Clean and super welcoming.  Dave and I sat on the couches, talking about tattooing, who knew who and the like.  Peggy was on the computer at the front desk, she’s almost on Facebook as much as I am (Love ya lady!).  It was a short visit, due to time, but when I got there it was a handshake hello, when I left it was a hug goodbye.  Peggy’s actually the one who got my ass in gear to write this, get the stories out there.  I plan on stopping over in Hawaii for another visit on my way back from the next trip to Australia.

Which brings me to my next post for another day!
Take it easy!
-R
Dragon Tattoo Website
Tattoo Hawaii Website

Bud, Seaside Oregon, and destroying our livers one Deadbolt show at a time.

Well, I’ve talked about him enough, it’s time I give you a quick intro to Bud (aka Josh James)

I first met Josh when I lived in BC.  It was pretty much an instant friendship.  Looks like a tough guy, but is genuinely one of the best people you’d have the honor of knowing.  For real.  I can’t say enough good things about this guy.  Six foot six, tattooed to the nines, dressed usually in black with chops and aviator shades to match.  He is like the big dumb brother I never wanted, but am stoked to have.  I hadn’t known him all that long when we’d found ourselves flying to the Philippines, a trip that would cement a friendship that’s going to last a lifetime.  He’s one of the few people I can hang out with for extended periods of time without wanting to punch in the face.  (end sappy shit)

Josh got into tattooing when the getting was good.  When tattooing still had a sense of mystery behind it.  He learned from a guy by the name of Bones, who learned under Cliff Raven.  As a tattooer its kind of neat to know that type of stuff.  Be able to trace someone’s lineage so to speak.  He still builds his own needles, paints flash and runs shop like he was taught.  He’s a cancer, a diabetic, likes candle-lit dinners, cats and The Smiths. (GFY Bud, I know you’re reading this) Harley refers to him as “the tall one pinching his belly”.  He’s worked in Hawaii, London, Spain and every where in between, and puts out some of the nicest west-coast style tattooing you’ll see.

But enough of the bio crap…

Nine Lives

After taking a few days to recover from the shit show that was Vegas I spent some time working with Josh at Nine Lives Tattoo in Seaside Oregon.  Like I said before, Seaside is about a 2 hour drive outside of Portland.  Right on the ocean, it’s a tourist town of about 6,000 with a small town mentality.  Ace.  Nine Lives is pretty much what I think of when I think of a classic shop.  Flash on the walls (most of it painted by Josh himself), signs with witty sayings (“If you don’t belong don’t be long”) and some oddities as well.  Old movie posters, shrunken heads and, as of this year, a piranha tank.  Walk-ins welcome, custom work offered, no piercings.  Mint.

We’d been back for around a week when Josh told me that Harley and Charlie were gonna be coming up to visit for a bit.  They (Deadbolt) were doing a mini Pacific North West tour and would be spending about a week at the house and help with renovations of the shop.  Killer.

Harley Davidson (for real, its his name) is like a cross between a long-haul trucker and John Wayne.  A man of mystery, he’s another one of those larger than life types, and it’s damn near impossible to dislike the guy.  Usually with a Coors Original Banquet and a glass of ice in hand, he always seems to be there with a quick joke, one liner or a story complete with actions to go along.  He got in about 9:30 at night, punchy and in full swing.  What I thought was going to be a relatively easy night (after all, he’d just driven all day) carried on until about 2 or 3 in the morning with the group of us just hanging around the island in the kitchen telling stories and laughing till there were tears in our eyes.

H and Bud workin, photo documentation by moi.

The next day the guys got to demolishing the shop and I worked ever so diligently on supervising the progress.  A tough job, but someone has to do it.  Charlie was flying in that night and Bud’s mom had dropped of a bunch of fresh salmon and we decided we’d have that for dinner.  So I left a bit early and went home to prep everything.

About an hour or so later, H showed up mixers and bags of ice in hand. “Can the boy drink this? it says ‘no sugar added’…”  Josh had took off to PDX to go pick up Charlie so back at the house we worked on making room in the fridge by clearing out some more cans of Coors.  The cool thing about Harv is that you can talk with guy about just about anything (Note, Harley has quite a few nicknames in our circle, Harley, H, Harv, Dangerfeild, Ese, so anytime I mention them, chances are I’m talking about him).  We talked about everything from the stuff at the shop to the rise of fascism in Italy post World War One.

Self, Bud, Harvey Dangerfield.

Josh and Charlie got back to the house about 11:30, handle of vodka and beef jerky in hand.  They made quite the sight, Josh being 6’6″ and Charlie being….significantly shorter.  He’s got a bit of a “fuck you” attitude, but is a nice enough guy once you get to know him.  Tiny. Tattooed.

The salmon was all prepped and cut into steaks, each individually wrapped in foil with some lemon and seasonings.  The guys wanted to throw it on the grill.  Little did I know just how serious of an event this was about to become.  Harv, Bud and Charlie make up 3/5s of what they call the “Brinkman Electric Smokers Club”.  The other two members being Tank Johnson and Gary “3rd Degree” Burns (more about them in later posts).  They all had the same type of smoker, matching black t-shirts and apparently they took their grillin’ serious!  Male bonding at it’s finest.  Normally when I do salmon steaks on the grill in foil it’s simple: put on grill, wait 10-15 minutes, remove from grill, eat.  Easy.  What ensued that night was nothing short of hilarious and has come to be known as “The Great Salmon Fiasco of 2011”.  Josh had gone out to light the coals and get the grill warm, and the guys followed him.  Soon I was hearing a heated discussion coming from the patio:

“The coals are too high boy!”- “No they aren’t, they’re too low”- “they’re fine!”

“The coals are too hot, you gotta get them just a bit warm then put the food on” “Boy! Listen to me! I have experience!”

“Flip the salmon” “Don’t flip the salmon, the juices run out” “no, flip the salmon the foil keeps em good”

Christ guys, can we please just come to an agreement and cook the fucking fish?  Not even kidding they debated for nearly 45 minutes before the fish finally went on the damn grill.  Just when I thought it was finally time to eat, Charlie pipes up and says “Dude! We gotta speed smoke the salmon”.  Speed smoke the salmon?! what the shit is that?!  Pretty much, you take your smoker, pack it stock full of wood chips, dry, and throw on the food.  Because they’re dry the chips smoke much faster…and way more.  Within minutes the attached garage was full of white smoke and it started to come into the house.  We had to move the smoker outside onto the driveway and even then, there was so much smoke I’m still amazed nobody called the fire department.  But about 10 minutes later we were eating some of the best damn salmon I have ever had in my life.  Guess all the trouble was worth it.

The next day Charlie and H went to work remodeling the back of the shop while Josh and I tattooed up front.  Josh was working on a big black and grey skull and snake on some kid’s forearm and I had just finished up a little butterfly or something like that.  The music in the background was lower than usual (somehow, the 4 of us inexplicably had all woken up with headaches).  Things were chill, quiet.  All of a sudden we hear a hacked up version of some Neil Diamond song being screamed from the back, not sung – screamed, at the top of their lungs, with Spanish accents and Dangerfeild Spanglish.  Josh’s customer, looking puzzled asked what was going on.  “Oh, that’s just Harley and Charlie, they’ll be here all week, we’re thinking of charging admission”.  Really, its a wonder we got as much tattooing done as we did.  H was cutting a hole in the wall to make way for a pass through window between the office and the work area.  I was working on a tattoo and out of the corner of my eye I could see him standing there…not doing anything, just standing.  It went on for a good 2 or 3 minutes before I turned to see what was up.  Here’s Ese, standing in the window cockeyed with a bandanna around his head asking us if we wanted Mai Tais.  Completely random, entirely hilarious.

Shop renovations nearly done, H and Charlie (who had now somehow earned the nickname of “Negrete”) headed up to Seattle for a show.  Gotta admit, was kind of good to have a few days of normalcy.  Well, as close to normal as could be considered when it comes to me and Bud.

Self and Charlie (Negrete)

Friday afternoon we closed up right at six, ran home, got fancy, and headed into PDX for the show.  We met up with the guys at their hotel, they were packing up and getting ready to head to the show.  It was here I met Little Baby Ray…easily the most, uh, “normal” member of Deadbolt (if there is such a thing).  The guys were playing at a place called Devil’s Point, a seedy biker bar/strip joint with stickers on the wall and a couple picnic tables outside to sit at while you had a smoke.  But the whiskey was strong and the drinks were cheap.  You could tell the boys had a rager the night before in Seattle, they were moving a little slow.  The show was decent, not the best one I’ve seen from them, and certainly not the worst.  I’m pretty sure that’s the night Negrete threw up behind the drum kit and went back to playing like it was no big deal.

After the show H disappeared back to the hotel for the night, but Bud, Negrete, Little Baby Ray and myself stayed at the bar and shut it down.  We then found ourselves at Lucky Devil strip joint (owned by the same guy who owned Devil’s Point).  Even though it was after hours they kept the bar open and the girls on stage for one or two more rounds because the owner had a man crush on the band.  I remember sitting on Perv Row, with a draft glass full of Jack Daniels and a little bit of Coke and paying the broad on stage $20 to give Bud a lap dance.  Because that’s what best friends do for one another, they buy lapdances.  The bitch took the money and then went to the other side of the stage and made nice with some hipster in flannel and a beard.  I wonder if he was a tattooer.  We finally called a cab and headed back to the hotel and called it a night.

The next morning we all met at the restaurant (sans Negrete, he was still sleeping it off) for breakfast and Bud and I were going to head back to Seaside.  We were about an hour outside of Portland when we got a text from Charlie.  “You’re not comin to Eugene?! H is bummed”.  So we pulled off to the side of the road, assessed our current liver function, and, deciding they were in alright working order, turned back around and headed to Eugene.  The whole time sending messages to the guys that they owed us Bloody Mary’s.  At least 10 of them.

We got there about 2:30, found a hotel within stumbling distance of the bar, got our rooms and went to meet Baby Ray and Negrete.  H wasn’t feeling the greatest, so was going to hang back at the hotel for a while.  We ended up at the same bar they would be playing at later that night, Diablo’s.  A decent bar in the middle of hipsterville.  The four of us sat ourselves at the bar, and ordered a round of Bloody Mary’s.  The barmaid, who you could tell was hoping to make it somewhere on looks rather than brains, had no idea how to make one.  I’m sorry, wha?  It’s one of the easiest drinks to make short of opening a can of beer.

“You got vodka?”
“yes”
“You got Tomato Juice?”
“Yep”
“Horseradish and Worcestershire?”
“no”
“good enough, mix above ingredients and throw it over some ice…we’ll take 2 each”

Bloody Mary’s quickly progressed into beer and whiskey, and by 8PM I needed a nap.  There were maybe 2 or 3 other people in the bar, so we had control over the jukebox (important territory when day drinkin!) To this day, Josh is the only person I know to get a jukebox disconnected for playing too much George Jones.  “The King is Gone” on repeat.  Whenever I hear the song it brings back cloudy memories of Eugene.

So I made my way back to the room and had a much needed nap.  Woke up, still drunk, and met up with Ese, Negrete and Ray.  Bud was MIA.  We headed back to the bar and started unloading all the gear and merch into the back room.  Bud showed up.  Apparently he’d had the same idea as I had earlier and went back to his room for a nap and a shower.  We were setting up the Merch table while the guys got the gear on stage.

“Harv how much you want for shirts?”
“Ten bucks”
“How much for CD’s?”
“Ten bucks”
“How much for the Dickies garage jackets?”
“Ten bucks…combs and shit, I dunno, make it up as you go”

That night was easily one of the best shows I’ve seen the guys play.  They were on point.  Bud and I were hustling merch like tattooers know how.  “This album is the best one yet, you need it.” “Here, tell ya what, normally these combs are five bucks, I’ll give ya one if you buy the shirt and the CD…don’t tell Harv”.  They played for a good two hours, Josh and I took turns grabbing beers from the bar for us and the boys, and a couple shots of the cheapest tequila they had – “Just put it on the band’s tab”.

Show over and bar closing, we helped pack everything up.  Singing the chorus from “Chung King Road” repeatedly.  Pretty sure the bartender guy hated us.  Harley is the only guy I know who will play a show, and then play their own album on repeat while we’re loading shit into the van.  Really Harv?! haha.

We made it back to the hotel, and all headed to Ese’s room for a final night cap.  Harv went to kick back and relax a little too hard and busted the chair…flat out.  He kinda lay there for a bit, we all laughed, and that pretty much ended the night.  It was probably 4 or so in the morning, and the guys had to drive back to PDX so Charlie and Ray could catch their flights home.  We’d tried to convince Ray to come out to Seaside for a few days earlier in the night, but he politely declined “nah, I’m pretty sure my neighbors are gettin’ tired of feeding my horse”….wait, you have a horse?! I’m not sure why that was such a big deal at the time, I mean really, my father owns race horses, I’ve been around them for as long as I can remember…but for some reason coming from Ray that shit was hilarious.  Anyways, they had to catch flights, Harv had to drive them to the airport, Bud and I had to get back to Seaside to open up shop again the day after next.

In the morning Josh and I headed back to Seaside, the guys headed back to wherever they all came from, and that was that.  I was the better off of the two of us (scary thought) so it was decided that I’d drive home.  Except that Josh’s truck has a single bench seat, and with him being a good 7 or 8 inches taller than I am, we couldn’t move the seat forward any further.  So I made the four hour drive using my toes to hit the pedals.  We got back to Seaside around 6 or 7 at night, and for the next day, occupied the couch and lazy boy chair in the living room watching Dexter on DVD.  But that was that, we’d survived.  I worked there for another week or so, and then headed back home.

I swear, sometimes I think I come home to Canada just to detox.

TCB or GFY
-R