Wednesday, 3 August 2011

My Skull Tattoo. My Skattoo!

I needed ink in LA. So I got inked in LA.

                    Swear they are hairs from my head. NOT my neck.

Due to an idiotic taxi driver who could not speak english and then shut the door on me as I was alighting, I got to LA Ink (actually known as High Voltage) LATE for my appointment. They were a bit annoyed, so I asked to use their bathroom, just to annoy them more.

High Voltage dunnycan. To the left were life-size replicas of the Simpsons. Homer listened to my man wee.

I came out and looked around. Lots of crazy cool eye candy, in the form of the Virgin Mary, crucifix's, and skulls.

My guy came over to talk me through my design. I said "Day of the Dead-ified" but he said too much detail. I said colour, he said black. He was kind of intimidating. So I told him whatever he thought. He sketched something out, positioned it, everything. He was the total boss of it.

I was so hungry and thirsty and rushed that I forgot to steel myself for the pain.

OUCH. Hurt like a bitch. I sat there and copped it, painfully aware that I was the oldest person there. He asked me was I enjoying myself on holiday. I said yes, going to a blog conference soon. "Oh, a blog? What do you blog about?"

Ok so here's a tip - when you are in an ultra-groovy world-famous tattoo parlour and you are asked what kind of blog you have, do not - DO NOT EVER SAY YOU ARE A MUMBLOGGER.

I told him, I am a mumblogger!

He asked me to repeat myself. "Um, a mumblogger?" I kind of felt red in the face. He downed his tools - swear to god - and said, "A what? A mumbler?"
No, not a mumbler - a mumblogger. He kind of could hardly believe it. Either could I.

"So, people actually want to read about things like that? Oh, little Johnny was playing with a toilet roll holder! How cute!"

We both laughed, and I assured him that I was a dark and twisted mumblogger. I was getting a skull tattooed on my neck goddamit.

I was painfully self-aware, and pretended it was not hurting at all. It hurt a lot.

Finally finished, he asked me to go take a look at it, I walked through, tripped over the velvet rope in front of the mirror. Told him it was great, but just wanted to get OUT of there. I swung my handbag over my shoulder, missed my shoulder, so it came crashing down onto the floor.


I went to pay and they didn't have change so I had to go next door to "buy a souvenir." Next door had artwork of women with skulls and no pants on. Vaginas were split open and the hot tattooed 50's chick gave me a running commentary of the artist. Kind of did not know where to look.

The cheaper items in the shop included a jigsaw puzzle of an Asian man wearing a suit made entirely from bacon. I just wanted to buy something, get the change for next door, and get the hell OUT OF THERE.

I found the perfect thing, and scurried off. Took it back to my hotel, made plans to grab Woogs and go meet the delectable Mamaspohr and family for a Mexican dinner. I sat down next to Heather's cousin Leah and told her I got a new tattoo ... was it any good? Because I had not seen it properly. She assured me it was.

Weary now, but I can't sleep. It's 6.30pm back at home, and I imagine how noisy my dinner table is right now. I miss them keenly. Ouch. Hurts like a bitch.


Climbing into bed I sat on something lumpy - the thing I bought to break down some change for my tattoo.

                      I did not know I needed it, until I saw it.

A $20 resin moustache on a stick. I flew halfway across the world for this.

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