I got outta class Wednesday afternoon around one and decided that I owed it to myself to do some drinking and perhaps write something worthy of posting, as I've been kinda scarce lately, having to fuck with all kinds of bullshit beyond my control. Plus, nothing happens here until ya do it yerself, so that's what I decided to do.
En route to the place a call home this month, I remembered that I'd drank all the beer from the afternoon previous, so I pulled into the local white-trash, piece-o-shit grocery-type place where I feel at home so as to get some more suds.
I snagged a 12-pack of Budweiser and departed for the room of this house where I call home-- the one place where I can drink all I want, piss in the sink, play on the computer and puke wherever. My twelve new friends and I were gonna have a relaxing afternoon, or so I thought.
When I got home, I entered the house, ignored the stack of unpaid bills by the front door and went into my domain. I set the 12-pack on the floor, switched on the monitor and began the login sequence. No dice. Fuckin busy signal. Time to wait.
Ten minutes and three beers later, I completed the login and decided not to read about drunken adventures, as I wasn't drunk enough, but rather to read some tasteless stuff for a change of pace.
Two hours and a twelve-pack later, I was buzzing quite heavily, and despite all my efforts, I could not respond to any of the e-mail waiting for me. I hadn't eaten in a couple of days, so I allege the weak-ass Okie 3.2% somehow went rapidly to my head. The fact that I hadn't slept in 35 hours didn't contribute to my drinking stamina, either. I decided to rest for a little while.
Four hours later, someone started banging on my door. What the fuck now? I climbed outta bed and swung the door open. 'Twas the owner of the house, talking something about a note and a phone call and some other shit I couldn't understand. As it turns out, some asshole (me) left a note on my door saying something to the effect of WAKE ME FOR ANY CALLS or whatever.
I staggered into the other room where the phone is and grabbed the receiver.
"What?" I asked.
"Hi Joel, it's Carrie [not CarrieS]. You want a tattoo?"
"Sure. It'll make for good copy. Where are you?"
"Oklahoma City," she said. "Can you meet me at 63rd & May?"
"Is that where the tats are gonna go down? In a fuckin parking lot?" I demanded.
"No, but I don't wanna bother finding your house. Meet me there in ten minutes, okay?"
"Umm, okay," I answered, adding, "Oh yeah, I'm still drunk-- that a problem?"
"No," she assured. "Actually, it'll be easier that way."
She laughed and hung up.
Okay, no problem. This'll be easy, I thought. I haven't had any ink pushed into me in about seven years and besides, there's no real trouble for me to get into here in Oklahoma City, so I might as well create something worthy of documenting.
I got dressed, threw on my OSBI (that's Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation) hat, compliments of my sister (the almost soon-to-be Fed), and headed out towards 63rd and May Avenue-- about five minutes away.
In the parking lot, I met up with Carrie, who spoke a single command: "Get in." I climbed into her Camaro and she fired up the engine.
Southbound on May Avenue at seventy miles per (the speed limit being 40), we arrived at Jeff's place somewhat quickly.
I don't really know how to accurately describe the place, but if you can envision a tree-lined, quiet suburban block, that's where Jeff lives. Retain that mental inagery until you enter the premises. Then you've been thrust into a living, breathing, stinking mausoleum/Misfits museum that rivals some of the coolest crack houses into which I've ever been.
Okay, I admit, it wasn't *that* creepy inside, but let's just say here and for the record that I felt entirely at home, okay? Yeah, it was that strange there.
Carrie had made a pit-stop into a convenience store so I could snag some more beer, and I immediately opened a can upon entering the general threshold of Jeff's place. We stepped a few paces into what one might describe as a living room, and Carrie began shouting, "Who the fuck's here?" again and again.
Jeff emerged from a black sheet draped over a doorway in the corner. I immediately felt a fondness for him, as I could tell he was from the "old school" of my Oklahoma City punk days-- he still had the sunken, blackened eyes, the cheap (but durable) GI boots, the blue mohawk, et cetera.
We exchanged pleasantries and Jeff got right to business-- the best way to be.
"You want some ink?" he asked.
"Sure do," I acknowledged. "I need some material about which to write and I haven't fuckin seen shit lately. Hey, you want a beer?" I offered him a can.
"Thank you, but no," Jeff declined. "I don't wanna color outside the lines, if you know what I mean."
"Aw, hell," I began, "I don't really care..." I began, but then closed my mouth once I realized what Jeff meant. Perhaps it would be best if we was sober, as much as I shudder at the thought.
The preliminary tattoo consultation was nothing more than our exchanging stories about seeing various bands on tour, sizing the image, boasting of occasional punk rock experiences, and shaving part of my pubic hair for the tat.
I unbuttoned my jeans for ease and accessibility and slid the waitline down a few inches. Jeff fitted a needle (heat/pressure-sterilized, I might add), and while he inked the outline of the design, we talked about the "old days" of Oklahoma City punk and exchanged gross jokes.
Ten minutes later, the design was outlined and Jeff said he'd be switching to a fatter stylus. I said I didn't care, but he advised that I'd feel a more intense stinging and buzzing on the flesh.
"Okay," I said, "But lemme drink another beer first, okay?"
"No problem," Jeff said, his larger needle buzzing in search of flesh to ink.
Soon, Carrie wandered into the room to watch the progress and told a few jokes as well. Jeff commented that I was the only person he'd seen who could drink beer, chain smoke, tell jokes and get inked, all at the same time. What a talented fuckin asshole I am!
One hour, six beers, and too damn many tasteless jokes later, the tat was finished. Jeff's sister wanted to take a picture of it to add to his portfolio, but when I yanked my pants down to my ankles, Jeff said that I might want to wait until the scabs heal and I go back in for a "touch up," if necessary, and that she'd best get the picture then.
I agreed, as a picture would look better after the redness and swelling went down. On the tat, that is.
Carrie drove me back to 63rd and May, where I retrieved my car and drove home. Ahh, it felt so damn nice to have some new ink, not to mention a story to write, for a change!
XXXJoel