Needled sent out Scott from Father Panik to report on the Philly Tattoo Convention. And now he hates us. Here's his story.
Fat Matt from Tattooed Kingpin makes an announcement over the loudspeaker.
"We want to this to be a good show. Please don't piss in the hotel elevators. Don't scream at the hotel staff. If you act like an asshole it's not our fault if you get punched in the mouth."
So starts the 2008 Philadelphia Tattoo Arts Convention.
Philly is a city with multiple personality syndrome. Historic, filled with world class museums and public art. It's people, however, are ferociously working class. Carefully maintaining hoagie thick accents and drinking PBRs. Any pretense of sophistication is sneered at. Punk rock and factory jobs are the standard a man is measured by.
I begin the convention filled with journalistic pride. Finally J 101 from Norwalk Community College is paying off. The smart folks at Needled.com can tell that I know my way around a who, what, when, where, why and have sent me out to cover the story. Get to the truth.
I am eager and ready to go. For now, at last, I am a writer.
First truth I learn? Being a journalist sucks.
It seems that you need to talk to people and take their pictures. I don't like talking to people, meeting new friends and learning about what makes them special. I don't care what their tattoo means. Mika (my business partner) busts balls every time I abandon her to run around playing Jimmy Olsen. We are slammed. Some have given themselves five finger discounts. I need stay in my vendor booth.
My allegiance to Needled is tested and fails. By the end of Friday night I want to quit Needled. My journalistic obligations loom like a punishment. The only people I talk to are those who come into my booth.
And women.
But women think that my camera is a flimsy cover for a horndog on the make. Not one will take off her shirt in the name of art. (Note to ed.: I need a big official looking PRESS badge). But christamighty you would never believe how many men drop their pants and show their ass.
Journalism is an ugly trade.
Another announcement is made:
"The hotel guests have complained about the smell of marijuana in the hallways."
Crowd cheers.
"It's not funny you motherfuckers. Now the police have drug sniffing dogs in the lobby. Everybody going through the doors will be checked out."
Good thing the convention had it's own elevator banks, thus allowing sly egress if needed.
I meet a crew called Gypsy Queens. Their banner proclaims, "Tats Not Tits". They want to promote a positive view of tattooed women to the world. Yeah, OK I guess, but isn't one of the benefits of tattoos is that it freaks out moms and other straight people? Why is the tattoo community bending itself into a pretzel to be sanitized, family friendly, and safe? Be dangerous! Be an outsider! Make babies cry say I. Maybe I'm not the guy who should be writing about how great tattoos are. I like that whole whores, sailors, convicts thing. [Editor's Note: The 'likes' of Father Panik do not represent the views of Needled.com. We're all highbrow and shit.]
Alex Grey has a booth with art, books and promo stuff but, um, I didn't ask him anything. Like I mentioned, I'm pretty anti-social.
Murphy's Law, the Philly conventions' house band performed. I didn't see it. Hardcore was my life back in the day, but now I have a strong aversion to loud music. Old. I know.
A suspension crew brought the sex hooks and blood. Lots of it. Finally I get a shot of a topless woman. See the pics.
As for the level of tattooing, pretty darn good. Troy and the crew from Tattooed Kingpin put on a nice convention. He told me once that his convention was about art first. I think about that as I wonder why the women in the booth across from me are here. They sell $10 t-shirts printed with 100% White Trash. Another in our vendor ghetto sells only sunglasses. I don't get the art or tattoo connection there, but I'm not very smart I guess.
Lesbians.
The Needled editors will probably edit this out (or at least should) but dang there were a lot of lesbians at this convention. [Editor's Note: It's ok. We like lesbians.]
Not my fantasy librarian/stripper lesbians but flannel shirt and work boot lesbians. Philly is the city of sisterly love. Bikers, punks and lesbians. Now that's a good tattoo convention.
On the stripper/librarian front the Suicide Girls did a good job of being Suicide Girls, all flirty and coy. Acting super exited to be photographed. It's a hustle but it’s a good one. Sometimes it's fun to be hustled.
By Sunday night it's been three days of bad food and hustles. Much blood has been spilled in the name of art and cash. I can count total hours of sleep on my fingers. Mika hates me because the food I got her from a roach coach gave her food poisoning.
I am reduced to something small and meek from the crush of thousands of people and tattoos, the Great and Terrible. "Who are you, and why do you seek me?", they ask. I can only gaze in wonder and fear.
I have a tattoo nightmare.
I dream that I wake up hungover, my pubes shaved and the Baby Phat logo tattooed below my belly button. No. Seriously. I did. Dream it I mean. It was terrible.
I dread having to submit anything to Marisa, editor of Needled. She trusted me, had faith in me, and I quit on the first night. I have let Needled down. Exhausted, voice shot, I never want to see a tattoo again.
Fat Matt makes his last announcement:
"Ladies and gentlemen, the 2008 Philly Tattoo Convention is now over. Get the fuck out."
That man has a way with a microphone.
We the clowns pack up our circus tents and head for the next city.
What can we take away from it all?
FTW? Love Hate? Skinhead Madonna's?
There is no time to reflect.
My duty to Needled and you, gentle reader, is unfulfilled.
I am a blind man describing an elephant based only on what I touch.
I'm no journalist.
But rather than dwell on defeat, I'm looking to the future. In a few days Michelle from Daredevil Tattoo in NYC is working on my Japanese Rock of Ages leg sleeve. Next time Needled should ask me to write on the meaning of my tattoos. Now that is some fascinating stuff. I could do 1000 words on that easy.
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