rat-a-tattoo

My ears still buzz with the drone of the needles. Swirling designs dance before my eyes. But my skin continues to be ink-free. I survived it, the great Philadelphia Tattoo Convention.

It was a wild time. The Center City Sheraton was overrun with tattoo-ed folk of all kinds. Tall ones, fat ones, young ones, old ones. Bikers, hipsters, punks, hippies...the elite of the body art world all convening into three sweaty, PBR scented convention floors. There were rows upon rows of folks getting tattooed and artists doing live sketches. The whole scene was quite entrancing.

And then there was the entertainment. For the price of the admission I was suddenly privy to the accessories to the world of tattoos and gauge piercings: the art of the sideshow and burlesque. Philadelphia's own Olde City Sideshow performed along with The Freak Kings (can't find a site for them). Acts that normally would only be seen in the company of the big tent circus and vaudeville stages of the past are popping up all over the place now. I saw many swords a-swallowed. Household clothes irons were suspended from lower eyelids and swung from side to side, and the oh-so-interesting Penguin Boy lifted a bowling ball from the large holes in his earlobes. What? How does one start to endeavour in such a practice?

But I digress. The whole evening was a blast. Truly. Murphy's Law played a hell of a set. Did I know their music? No. Did I dance like I did? Of course.

So, ladies and germs, if a tattoo convention comes your way open your mind a wee bit and consider attending. For serious.