www.insideHALTON.com | OAKVILLE BEAVER | Thursday, January 21, 2016 | 18 Getting into a verbal contract made with permanent ink That's A Life s anyone who knows me at all will tell you, I'm altogether intolerant of uncertainty. And, it goes without saying, I'm even more intolerant of pain, which is not to suggest that I'm a big baby, but.... So, how exactly did this big baby come to nd himself driving into Toronto last week -- awash in uncertainty and apprehension -- to get a tattoo? Honestly: at an age where everything automatically aches for absolutely no reason, do I really want/need to purposely in ict further pain upon my person? Apparently, I do. This whole nonsensical notion of getting inked, like most nonsensical notions in my life, naturally involved one of my kids. And a Manhattan, or two. It was just before Christmas, you see, and I was into the spirit(s) of the season, when my daughter started what I thought was an innocent conversation about tattoos. She said something about wanting to get The Tree of Life tattooed on her back and I said -- conversationally, and without intent -- that if I were to ever get a tattoo, I'd get the iconic Neutral Milk Hotel ying gramophone image from Andy Juniper Guest Contributor GAS FIREPLACE REPAIR Factory Trained Service Tech & Electronic Fireplace Specialists Solving Problems Since `82! Cut and Save! You Experience is the Difference! never know when you will need us! 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Apparently, at some point in the night, I got all weepy-passionate about Neutral Milk and the band's profound in uence on my soul, and all hyper-passionate about getting that image inked into my chest -- and, apparently, I said as much to my daughter, a university student with an eye on possibly studying law. Well, when I awoke the next morning, feeling inexplicably headachy, I was confronted by my daughter who con rmed our pact and my commitment -- shrewdly noting the legality of the `verbal contract' into which I'd apparently entered -- and asking when I was available to go with her. To have my skin repeatedly punctured by a sharp mechanized needle, and have indelible ink drilled deep into the dermis, which is not the rst layer of skin, but, rather, the second. "How's the day after never?" I asked. And so, it was booked for last Friday. And it was decided that I'd go ahead of my daughter because when I'm at all anxious, I tend to get crazier by the minute. Franklin, the tattooist, was very professional, calming. He asked whether I had any questions. I sure do. Can you knock me out? No? OK. Can you tattoo someone who's in the fetal position, sucking his thumb and trembling? No? Are you sure you can't knock me out? When the procedure was complete, when I nally had that iconic ying gramophone engraved on my chest, my daughter, who'd been waiting in the parlor's lobby, naturally wondered: Well, how was it? I told her it was like a walk in the park. What I didn't say was it was like a walk in the park with someone who's sort of stabbing at you with a mechanical needle for 90 minutes. Honestly, it hurt. Like blazes. At least while Franklin was doing the thick outline. Then the pain diminished to discomfort. Then it was done. A few nights later, over a Manhattan, the memory of that pain/discomfort began to fade and talk turned to possible future ink. No. Not in a million years. Never. Although... one drink later, I was contemplating a classic line from an E.E. Cummings' poem: "Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands." Catchy, eh? Might look kinda cool under my ribcage, no? -- Andy Juniper can be contacted at ajjuniper@ gmail.com or followed on Twitter @thesportjesters. ABBEY ARMS GlEn ABBEY'S OnlY AuthEntic BRitiSh PuB! 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