Ok, the Philly Tattoo Convention.
I know it happened over a month ago. Maybe old news by now.  I was supposed to turn in an incisive and detailed report to DCP right after it happened.

It’s gone from being a local event in a hotel conference room to a multi-national gathering in a mega convention center packing in the tattoo crowd like bedbugs in a hotel mattress. An onslaught of humanity. A tidal wave of booze, ink, blood and pin ups. Carnie heaven.

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A Celebration Of Art

The Philly convention somehow has managed to stay true to its Pabst Blue Ribbon punk rock roots while embracing the new reality TV tattoo explosion.  In a way, it’s gratifying to see our own celebutants walking the floor. “Cast members” from every tattoo show being treated like royalty. I know we all love to slag on them. Maybe they are attention hungry media whores but on this day they’re OUR attention hungry media whores and we give them props.
Run down, second rate knock offs of Suicide Girls website are everywhere. There are a dozen pin up burlesque crews working the crowd. Half naked and grasping for tattered bits of fame and something daddy never gave them. They hustle monthly membership to their websites. Pay up and you can see them completely naked. For a fee, some will even visit your hotel room that night for private modeling sessions. God bless them. They belong to us. The higher thinking can debate women’s representation in the tattoo world but this weekend we celebrate “Show Your Tits For a T-Shirt” contests. We do it with gusto. It’s great and terrible.
It’s a tattoo convention. Not an academic salon where witty bon mots are traded, poems read and tea sipped. Remember where we came from. An art form born of rum soaked sodomite sailing ships. Carnivals and prisons. And we’re in Philly for Christ sakes. Philly!
So bring on the half naked ladies with their street shop tattoos and open the bar.
Yeah, I didn’t get any pictures of them. I never claimed to be a professional journalist or documentary photographer. I’m just a guy selling skull t-shirts. And besides, I don’t like crowds so I never left the safety of my 10 X 10 booth. People in Philly got sticky fingers. Got to stay and keep my eyes on them. I’m here to sell my swag to the locals. Remember, carneys’ travel. Roll into town, set up the sideshow, flash some skin and get the money. When you sober up and try to figure out why you spent your paycheck at my booth I’m long gone. No returns or exchanges. See you next year.
So no pictures.
 Anyway, this is a classy site so I’m not allowed to post pic’s of naked zombie strippers.  Take it up with the editors if you want. In fact, if you really feel that DCP has dropped the journalistic ball by not having pictures of naked burlesque women with blood flowing from their mouths email the editors of DCP and demand free speech!

(Michelle here, I never said Scott couldnt post naked Zombie pictures. Scott just wants you to beg for them)

THEY (well, not DCP, but you know what I mean) took your job to India. They say you can’t smoke and now THEY say you can’t see tits. How much more of this are you going to take? This is not the great country I grew up in. Demand that the U.S. Bill of Rights and your God given right as an American citizen to see tattooed strippers is respected. Be a patriot and a revolutionary. Do this and I will oblige. I am after all a humble citizen journalist. A servant of the people. If called upon I will perform my duty. Because when we think of tattoo journalism we think integrity.
Remember kids, stay in school and don’t do drugs.

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