» On 5/15/2017 10:00:00 PM Mountain Standard Time, Alan wrote:
Tattoo You (w/apologies to Mick). 

Today, the woman who cuts my hair told me the story behind her tattoo. So I told her about mine:

It's May 19, 2015, and I'm 64 - WAY too old to be getting my first tat. And yet, here I am, in a back alleyway of Inverness, trying to figure out where I can get £180 ($232) in cash before my turn comes up. My wife and I have been watching the tattoo artists at Inver Ink through the large picture windows that keep the gawkers away from the tattoos-in-progress. I've wanted a tattoo for as long as I can remember, but I never had the gumption to actually get one. Even now, I'm conflicted. It's slowly becoming clear that this project will consume a whole day of our precious vacation time, and I keep asking Anikó, "Don't you want to see Loch Ness instead?" She shushes me, and sends me off to the nearest branch of the Royal Bank of Scotland.

Once I'm out walking in the fresh air, I think of all the tattoo designs I've considered over the years. The six-inch skydiver on my left forearm, to match the length of the screw that holds my shattered elbow together. The propeller on my left wrist, to indicate the only hand that "knows" how to pilot an airplane. The sailplane on my right wrist, to mark the only hand that "knows" how to fly a glider. But when it comes right down to a decision, I settle on a heraldic crest badge from my clan, the Bairds.

When I finally meet my tattoo artist, Luca Bassi, I'm nervous. The preliminary sketches were not quite right: "Can you make the gryphon look a little more fierce?" After awhile, he says, "This is your first tattoo, right?" and whips out his phone, to show me pictures of other tattoos he's done. After seeing the artistry of the first three or four, I can tell that he's The Guy. So he makes a transfer, and puts it on my right shoulder. Anikó takes a look, and says it's too high. Luca washes off the temporary ink and moves it down an inch or two. I try to show her this one, too, but Luca won't let me, as if to say: "Make up your own mind, weenie." He begins drawing on my arm with the buzzing needle. It doesn't hurt very much, and I ask what brought him, an Italian, to the Scottish Highlands. He says that he's worked all over the world, even as far away as Australia, and this is his latest stop. He likes it, though. But we don't chat much - mostly, I let him concentrate. After an hour or so, he takes a break, and lets me walk over to the mirror. The tattoo looks great to me, but he says he has to do the shading. So I sit back down, for another hour. When he finishes, my mouth drops open. The tattoo is magnificent, much better than my wildest dreams. A couple of other guys compliment the ink, and I start to say thanks, but then switch to: "It's the work of a very talented artist." Luca smiles.

TAP PIX TO ENLARGE: My family went to the Scottish Highlands, and all I got was this lousy tattoo. 😉 The crest is "a gryphon's head erased Proper" (with the head violently ripped off, leaving a jagged edge). The second word of the Latin motto is pronounced FACE-it: "The Lord hath made" or "The Lord has acted" or "The Lord has done this." (1) Taken at 3 hours - the redness quickly went out of my irritated skin. (2) By 74 days, the tat had reached its final form. (3) [update] At 8.5 years, it's turning from black to blue. (4) Inver Ink's business card. FYI, 13% of people in my age group have tattoos - infographic.


UPDATE (things I couldn't say in the tattoo parlor): Three or four tattoo artists were working very diligently all day. All of them were hairy guys, heavily tattooed, and from what I could pick up during their conversations with each other, they lived in a sort of gay commune. There was quite a bit of hugging and kissing among these burly Scottish warriors, which seemed strange - and sort of wonderful - to my eyes. I thought it must be great to really love the people you work with. As Luca created my tattoo, day turned into night, and most of the clients left, as their tattoos were finished. But the artists all hung around and chatted. This was obviously their time for socializing. One new artist arrived, just as Luca was putting the final touches on my gryphon. The new guy looked like he was in charge - the others deferred to him. Ten minutes after he got there, a new customer walked in and took off his shirt. Apparently, the boss guy was planning to work all night on this new client, who was a beautiful young man in his early twenties. His body was amazing: smooth skin, lightly muscled, faintly tanned. If I were gay, I would have fallen in love immediately. He was that impressive.

There were no marks on his skin, and I couldn't help thinking, "Buddy, if you want a tattoo to make yourself more attractive, it can't be done. You are a Greek god already. Michelangelo would have wept." I briefly considered saying something to him, but I suspected the tattoo artists would have taken offense. After all, they made their living by marking up bodies. For a fat old f*ck like me, it didn't matter. My starting point was a long way from perfection. But his wasn't.

I was pleased with my tattoo, so I gladly paid my money and left. But I still wonder if that young Greek god was ever completely happy with his ink.

 
» On 5/01/2017 01:00:00 AM Mountain Standard Time, Alan wrote:
A guy walks into a bar... 

...and sees a sign: "Free Beer For Life If You Can Pass Our Test!"

He asks the bartender, "What's this 'test'?"

The bartender says, "First, you chug a gallon of pepper tequila. Next, you go out back and pull the sore tooth out of our alligator's jaw. Finally, there's a girl upstairs who's never slept with a man, and you gotta make things right with her."

The man exclaims, "That's a piece of cake! Alright, let's do this." The bartender hands him a gallon of pepper tequila, and the man struggles to chug it. He manages to finish, and he slams the bottle on the counter, but he's teary-eyed and nearly fainting. The bartender warily points him in the direction of the alligator.

After several minutes of screaming and growling and ungodly ruckus, the man stumbles back in. His shirt is torn, and he's bleeding profusely. He can barely stand up, but he aims a glassy stare at the bartender and says, "OK, where's the girl with the sore tooth?"