![]() ![]() “Parlor or needle-and-thread?” he asked me. When finally I was able to signal to him that his Rob Zombie was excruciatingly loud, he reluctantly turned it down a smidge, enough for me, tattoo neophyte, to distract myself from my nervousness to ask him where he got his first tattoo. ![]() Then, before he accomplished anything further, before he sterilized his equipment or even asked me where I wanted my tattoo carved into my skin, he turned on the-get this-boom box and blasted Rob Zombie’s “Dragula” so loudly there was no chance a conversation could have occurred, which was extra disadvantageous to me, since I hadn’t even told him where I wanted the tattoo. Upon arriving, the man who would go on to tattoo me quickly escorted me to a back room, where he instructed me to lie down in a dentist’s-ish chair. ![]() Not knowing how that all worked, I made an appointment with the first tattoo artist I found in the-get this-phone book.
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