2006-08-13
vicarious tattooing
Bekah and I spent the majority of last night at St. Sabrina's Parlor in Purgatory. The name makes it sound like a pretty hardcore place, but don't be fooled. It's actually just a run-of-the-mill tattoo parlor filled with Ikea furniture and pretentious hipsters. It is, however, the place to go if you are in the market for a tattoo or a piercing.
Bekah selected her tattoo design of choice, and we sat down to wait. A few short hours later (and I use the term "short" loosely), her tattoo artist directed us upstairs. Her tattoo artist was a hipster of the worst kind -- pretentious, moody, sneering, and silent. He said maybe a total of ten words to Bekah -- and none of them were comforting.
Hipster McDouchebag (as I have lovingly nicknamed the tattoo artist, since he never introduced himself) fired up his Tattoo Death Machine and got to work. Bekah requested I tell her a joke or a story, but Mr. McDouchebag told her not to laugh in a tone that insinuated he intended to kill her with his bare hipster hands if she so much as giggled. In light of this revelation (and given my propensity for making accidental jokes at innappropriate times) I maintainted a fairly constant silence. Bekah sang the Phil of the Future theme to herself, and remained admirably tearless and flinch-free.
And there you have it: my first experience with vicarious tattooing.
zebrasaur at 11:36 a.m.
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