Tracheversary and Tattoo #15
Last night, as is now tradition, I went out to celebrate the anniversary of my trach, or as my friend, Monica, called it, my “tracheversary.” The idea is to take what could be a rather odd and depressing day, and turn it into something fun. So, to that end, I went to paint the town red with my assistant, Sarah, my friend, Sarah, and the previously mentioned, Monica.
It was a smaller affair than last year, just us four. The tone was different too, no reminiscing about the hospital, or me almost dying. They didn’t know me back then, so there was really no reason to talk about it, which was nice. I’ve written a lot about those days, but I don’t particularly like talking about them in casual conversation. I’d also never been out with so many people who could do the alphabet. Usually, only one person in a group knows how to do it, so I pretty much only talk that person, and if that person isn’t necessarily good at it, I hardly talk at all. Both Sarahs and Monica are good at it, so I don’t feel lonely around them, it’s nice.
Now, an interlude of pictures…
After dinner and what-not, it was time for my fifteenth tattoo. Unless it’s a real art-piece, I don’t like to schedule my tattoos. They’re more fun spontaneous, left to fate. So, last night, after much walking up and down 7th avenue in the bitter cold, visiting four shops, we finally found someone available to etch words into my flesh. We ended up at Doc Dog’s Las Vegas Tattoo Company, a place I’d walked by dozens of times, but had never been. As it turns out, Doc Dog’s is fucking spectacular, everything you could ever want in a tattoo shop. It’s so perfect, not too brightly lit, crazy art on the walls, tattoo needles buzzing everywhere. It was just right for my new ink.
Whenever someone tells me that I can’t do something, my usual reaction is to go and do it anyway, it’s just my way. Doing so always reminds me of a scene from my favorite film, Stay. Sam (Ewan McGregor) is talking to a strung out Beth (Janeane Garofalo). She’s just had a nervous breakdown and has taken a liking to liquor and pills. Sam sees her table-top pharmacy and says, “you can’t drink while you’re taking these,” to which she notes, “apparently, I can.” Hence the tattoo…
I really don’t like being told what I can or cannot do simply because none of my muscles work. My decisions are mine, sometimes I forget that, so it’s good to be reminded.
13 comments