My Tattoo

April, 2002

In order to celebrate the fact that I have just survived the third and last of a series of cortisone shots in my back (and the results are good), and for various other reasons, I got a tattoo this afternoon. I have been threatening to do this for some time.

The tattoo is on my left arm at the shoulder. It is of a snake chasing its tail. In the ancient world a snake chasing its tail was a symbol of the eternal recurrence of history. The players change, but the roles are the same. This snake, however, has the head just above the bicep on the shoulder. The body winds around the arm in such a way that the snake cannot reach its tail because its body is in the way. History only tries to repeat itself, but history itself leaves tracks that make true repetition impossible.

The process was interesting. I checked at Ambrotos tattoo parlor on Bonifant Street in Silver Spring, where Century Bicycles used to be (Fatty's used to be there after Century, but no more). I walked in around 1:00, and discussed safety and sterility with the owner, Mike Smith. Everything is single use, and no ink (as some people have suggested) is from a previous customer. They just load the ink in a little container, and then they throw the remainder away afterwards. Everything is sterile.

When I came in, the tattoo artists were all having lunch. They had sent out for barbeque beef sandwiches, and watching them eat this wonderful-smelling food made me very hungry. Of course, I had just had 12 oz. of cottage cheese, 1/2 cantaloupe, and some blackberries for lunch, but that stuff *really* smelled good. I almost went out for something myself, but they had sent out to a place on Grubb Road (how appropriate) several miles away.

All the guys at the place looked good. I would never want as many tattoos as they have, but they were a very upbeat, positive bunch, and they all seemed to be in excellent physical condition. No negative energy. Nobody would mistake them for bankers, but that is a good thing.  Bankers loaned money to Enron, and tried to cover up its financial situation.

While I was waiting for them to finish lunch, a guy came in to get his girlfriend's name tattooed on his arm.  They gave him a price per letter, but it transpired that he did not know how to spell his girlfriend's name.  He went away, and I don't know if he ever came back or not.  You really cannot make this stuff up.

I picked out the snake, but the layout of the body in the book was not what I wanted, so the snake had to be drawn free-hand with magic marker. Shawn, the guy who was going to do the tattoo, was not good at that, but another tattoo artist, Justin, was, and we finally got the right design. To illustrate, Justin drew a picture of my armpit, but that was a bit superfluous - I have seen it before.

A black guy waiting for his tattoo saw the design.  He said, "That's gangsta, man."  Then he explained:  "Gangsta's good."  I knew that.

Then it was time for the tattoo. The snake was to be in black - stylized - and Shawn first outlined everything and then filled in the parts that were to be filled in. The whole process took almost 3 hours, and I had to send somebody out to feed the parking meter. It was quite painful. At first this bothered me a bit, but after an hour, it just became boring, though still a bit interesting to watch. Then I was bandaged up and sent home with the admonition to use lots of Lubriderm for the next 2-3 weeks. There are bruises and a fair amount of blood, but it should heal soon.

It turns out that Shawn knows my friend Jerry Lentz, and worked at the Bicycle shop on Colesville Road. Jerry is a serious cyclist and triathlete, currently living in Oregon. For his 40th birthday he planned a 250 mile bicycle ride. Only did 225 before he had to stop because of a seriously trashed tire. Too bad. Jerry and I used to bike together. He would forge ahead, and then double back to pick me up. Well, I am 26 years older than he is.

Small world.