Having been referenced on the magic 8 ball-like livejournal (why won't PubMed be so kind?), I have once again remembered that I was supposed to find a tattoo place and go do tattoo place things once I moved here. Which is now almost 3 years ago. I found a piercing place, but frankly who gives a shit about a piercing place because I have like 10 unused scalpels and a dozen needles just languishing in idle dwindle in a trick box next to my Blacksad books (en francais quel joie).
But I guess when it comes to that other latex glove and petroleum jelly-based industry, I'm like my grandmother looking through the grocery store squeezing green peppers and sighing disinterestedly, wondering why there aren't nicer peppers in this big fancy supermarket, what with their ethnic food section and non-skid rubber mats in front of the shitter. By this rate I'll have a back with nothing to show on it but a fine berber carpet of hair and the invisible weight of being the sexiest two-fisted bastard on this island.
So, I guess I'll eventually have to put on my walking boots (secretly, they're also my sandwich-eating and hair-combing boots) and go looking around again in the "houston and south of it" area for someone who's willing to elaborate, someone who's up to the rigors, someone who's not got a fucking TAZ on the walls. I'm not giving up the search yet, true believers. Even if I can't find all of those business cards I stashed somewhere in this derranged decimal system I've got on the bookshelf (but at least I've got the scalpels and comic books organized), there's another tattoo convention in June or July, complete with jugheads and hairgrease!