Barney Tattoo Rubble

When faced with the question of if I would ever get a tattoo, or what it would be, I invoked my friends as examples of things to avoid: Chinese symbols, cartoon characters, family portraits, any animal or creature, and most lettering, no matter how foreign or ornate.  Yet for all of the items on my list of “don’ts,” I had none on the list of “do’s.”  Then a week ago I got a tattoo.   What changed? 

It all started one night while I was walking down St. Marks Place.  As I shuffled along behind tourists photographing the racks of orange zebra hats, and pierced men with space the size of a baby between their skinny-jeaned thighs, I passed a lone tattoo parlor-- a beacon of depravity on a slowly gentrifying street.  The fluorescent light outside flickered above a Barney stuffed animal chained to a railing.  Flies struggled to decide their destination of choice (between nesting on the glow of the light or the filthy relic of 90’s child brainwashing), but I couldn’t take my eyes away from the giant purple dinosaur.  One of his eyes hung by a thread, while the other shiny black button stared straight at me.   I shook my head and broke my fixated gaze only to catch a glimpse of various dusty “Looney Toons” characters asking to adorn my body from the tattoo window above.  Even though my adamant disapproval of such atrocities hadn’t changed, something inside me had shifted.  I let myself get swept up in the traffic flow and continued on my way to the East Village as thoughts of tattoos floated through my brain. 

The idea of inking my body gestated for a few weeks following my encounter with Barney.  My focus when reading The New Yorker would suddenly be interrupted with ideas of running out of the apartment and finding the nearest tattoo parlor.  If I was planning on attaching anything to my body while reading the magazine, it seemed like it should be a monocle and a cigar, not a tattoo.

During my couch brainstorming sessions, I realized part of the allure was being in control of something.  For much of the last year, I’ve struggled to get a grasp on my life, which at times seems like nothing but a series of events just beyond my control.

Then a few weeks ago I was writing with my friend online, when I asked the question, “Would I rather be healthy and stupid?  Or sick and wise?”  It didn’t have the eloquence that begged for me to imprint it on my skin forever, but the idea stuck with me.  More than anything, I wanted something to remind me of the struggle that I continue to go through, and the things that I’ve learned in the process.

Mid-conversation I decided to grab something in the kitchen, when I  noticed my reflection in the mirror.  Plastered across my t-shirt was my mantra for the past year: BIP/BON (Breathe in the positive/ breathe out the negative).  How had the idea not presented itself to me before?  My repetition of the phrase bordered on E.T.-like “phone-homing.”  If there was an obvious choice, it was this. 

Over the following weeks, I solicited opinions from my most trusted cohorts.  Person after person showed not only their excitement for the idea, but their interest in joining me for the event of (as my friend Jessica repeatedly pointed out) permanently altering my body.  Before I knew it, I had gathered a small village to journey with me. 

I knew to avoid the Barney Parlor (a flea-ridden stuffed animal sitting outside didn’t scream “reputable”), but finding the correct place to do the altering was yet another example of knowing what I didn’t want, but not what I did.  Within a day of announcing my intention, David had found a location in Williamsburg (Brooklyn, not colonial) that our friend Erin had gotten her tattoo at.   All it took was a two-minute phone call to make the appointment; the countdown began. 

My brain didn’t show any sign of nerves until the night before the appointment.  Hours passed as I tossed in my bed, anxious and unable to sleep.  When I awoke the next morning, with a makeshift rendering smeared in ballpoint pen across my wrist, I questioned if I was really going ahead with the plan. 

A subway ride led to a tattoo parlor that was more deserted than the shops on St. Marks place, a barren studio space with a couple of tables and a large man getting what is known in tattoo circles as a “sleeve.”  Before I knew it, my tattoo artist Michelle had loaded the gun and an ingratiating buzz filled the air.  Like the dentist, the sound was much more painful than the procedure.

(Stoic as the needle enters my skin.)

I had waited over a month between deciding to get one, and actually getting it, so as I waltzed out of the parlor with my friends and looked down at my saran-wrapped arm, I couldn’t believe it was over; ten minutes and I was changed for life. 

No matter how many times I told myself that I was doing this for me, and approval was something I could take or leave, I awoke the next morning with a pang of doubt.  As I unraveled my makeshift covering (a tangled mess of loosely applied band-aids that resembled a rope climbing wall), I felt beads of sweat on my forehead.  My roommate had vacated the premises, so I figured there was no better way to reassure myself than to do an inspection from every angle.

“Does it look cool if I pump my forearm really quickly like they make you do before you draw blood?” “Does it look cool if I sling my arm up to my forehead like a damsel in distress?”   The answers were a resounding yes and no, respectively. 

For a moment I couldn’t believe that I had felt the need to get a tattoo when I had a t-shirt that I could take on and off at my liking.  But as the week wore on I began to wear my tattoo as a badge of honor; a mark that I made it through the toughest year of my life and am wiser because of it. 

A few nights ago I wandered over the St. Marks Place and elbowed my way through the crowd.  There he was, chained to his post like always: Barney.  He may have collected a bit more dirt in the interim between our meetings, but ultimately he was the same beat up stuffed animal that he always was.   As I lifted up my camera to snap a picture of him, I caught a glance of my adorned wrist.  A small plus and minus sign reminded me to take a deep breath as the chaos continued around me.  I was  thankful that I wasn’t staring back at something garish.   Who knows?  If I had let Barney brainwash me the night of our first encounter, I might have ended up with a tattoo of a dinosaur on my wrist reminding me of Jurassic Park.  I shook my head and continued on my way, as I lifted my arm up and thought how thankful I am to have a reminder of the changes I’ve encountered.  A reminder that, just like the changes, can’t be taken off or washed away.
   

Comments

[Natalie D.]

As usual great writting! I am glad that you took time to really think this through. So many of my friends didn't and now regret it. Plus yours means so much to you and reminds you of your struggles. I think it was a great idea and it looks great. Subtle, but there.

[Jes]

I feel the need to defend both Asian symbols and creatures in the list of don'ts. I agree that if not meaningful, they are lame. However, as you have seen my tattoo and I think agree, nature and language can be really important reminders of a lot in life and when used respectively and intentionally, can be the perfect thing. That said, I love it!

xoxoxo

[M]

Haha. Jes. OF COURSE it all depends on who and why. Don't worry, you weren't there person I was invoking as one of my "don'ts." I mean more the people who go into a tattoo parlor and don't know what to get, so choose a random one from the book. :)

Natalie, thanks so much for the sweet comment! You are always toooo sweet. Thanks for the support ladies!

[Larry]

You know, if you put a * and / on the other wrist, you'd have all the arithmetic operators represented. You could think of it as BIP multiplied and BON divided.

Don't mind me. Just an idle thought.

[lindsey]

or if he turned his wrist so the thumb was up it could be bip divided by bon equals content?

[QQ]

Matthew,

"+" is also a Chinese symbol which means "ten." "-" is a Chinese symbol as well, means "one." so "+|-" would read "ten divided by one" in Chinese, and you still got a ten after all - you lose nothing, keep all your positives! just FYI.

and your blogs are interesting to read, i mean 99.99% of them ;) thank you again for helping answer questions o