Bash Compactor: Some Like It Skanky

The minute I walked into Roseland for the New York City Tattoo Convention, I got a bit high. I just love the freakish carnival world of tattoo aficionados. They don't mind calling a spade a spade; a 1930s “Freak” banner was streaming across the stage. Crossing my path right off the bat were a couple of bald dudes without shirts who were showing off their chests and backs, totally covered with intricate drawings. Hot chicks in low cut halter-tops showed off the pictures decorating their bodacious bosoms. A guy with a nose ring and face tattoos wanted to pose with me. Bad-ass Goths always put me in a good mood and contrary to reputation, they’re way nicer than investment bankers.

Still, I’m never going to put ink on my body. I want to keep it a gorgeously blank slate, a silky bare canvas. Me—glorious me—is enough. Why someone wants a tiger permanently branded on his backside is beyond me. Of course, the fabulous Angelina Jolie has a tiger and a dozen or so other markings. That little hipster grifter

Kari Farrell who recently triumphantly scammed her way through Brooklyn has an enormous dragon tattooed on her chest and emblazoned on her rear is an “I heart beards” tattoo. But she also wanted to give someone a hand job with her mouth, so go figure.

The tattoo world has always had a somewhat skanky rep. Years back, only sailors, prisoners and juvenile delinquents had ‘em. All that changed during the past decade and now most babies and dogs have at least a couple of tats.

Can you believe it was illegal to give someone a tattoo in New York City until 1997? You had to do it on the sly or get one out of town. Things sure have changed. Roaming through the tattoo exhibition hallway, where people were patiently subjecting themselves to what looked like some painful tattoos, I ran into Clayton Patterson barking into a walkie-talkie. Patterson, photographer and Lower East Side rabble-rouser, was one of the movers and shakers who got Giuliani to sign a bill legalizing tattoo shops here. That same year, the New York City Tattoo Convention was born and it’s happened ever since.

The night was mellow and everyone enjoyed showing off their bodies. It was chill. Except for one scrawny scrapper who I wanted to photograph “Gimme ten dollars or you can’t take my picture,” the man demanded, piercings flapping over his face, which was completely covered with evil looking inscriptions. He looked like Pinhead in Hellraiser.

“I’d pay you in crystal meth but I’m out of it right now,” I told him with a smile.

Pinhead looked irritated and I kept walking.