Wherein Father Panik talks about the orgins of Fun City Tattoo and other unseemly things.

When I meet Jonathan Shaw for the first time he's standing on an Avenue A corner handing out flyers, trying to drum up tattoo business.  

He's new in town and it’s not like he can just hook up a neon sign in the front window of his shop. It’s 1990 NYC. Tattooing is illegal.

Later when he became famous, it would cost $50 just to get an appointment with the illustrious Jonathan Shaw. But for now, he’s just another street corner hustler, elbowing out sidewalk space from the hookers and Flaco the dope man.

This is the birth of Fun City.

He hands me a flyer and tells me he’s tattooing in the east village. We strike up a conversation and he invites me to hang out at his studio.

So I do.

Later I realize that he was setting up a complex trap that would end up with me handing over my money and getting a tattoo. That sinks in long after my modern primitive tribal tattoo heals.

He's serpent smooth. He can see right into your soul. Talk the money right out of your wallet and you'll thank him for it. His game is always on. No move without thought of a score. His game runs so deep that deciding who pays for coffee becomes a Kasparovian duel.

Now, here's the thing. Jonathan Shaw is an asshole.

The most charming, interesting talented knowledgeable asshole you can ever hope to meet.

He can tell you stories of dinner with Bensonhurst wiseguys, riding with biker hit men, trading with jungle tribes in Brazil. Bangkok brothels.

But still. Asshole. Big time.

So I end up in Fun City getting a tattoo.

Fun City is an armor plated fortress.

The windows of the ominous storefront are welded shut with black diamond plate steel.  No signs or marks indicate what’s happening on the other side of the iron gate that protects the front door.

Inside it’s like a satanic warlords trophy room. Art and artifacts that stand more as warning rather than decoration. Human shrunken heads in a jar. Skulls everywhere. A Robert Williams painting of a WW2 Nazi officer torturing a young barely dressed blond. There is an original portraitof JS drawn by R. Crumb, a letter on the wall from a national tattoo organization kicking him out of their club because they don’t like him.

 Weapons are everywhere, strategically placed within his arms reach. The pistol grip of a street sweeper pokes out from under his desk. The grip of something scary sticks out between a couple of books on a shelf. A knife as big as your fucking arm  under a coffee table. This is some serious voodoo.

Jonathan Shaw does not fuck around. You will pay for your tattoo.

So. My 1^st Shaw piece.

Black tribal of course. It seems that was the only kind of tattooing that existed in 1990 NYC. It's his signature style. Wary of copycats, he likes to sign his work. If you are not alert you can end up with Jonathans name tattooed on your arm.

We take a break from the tattoo and I go to the bathroom.

In the bathtub next to the toilet are clusters of used tattoo needles, black ink running into the drain.

They are being cleaned for reuse.

This is illegal tattooing and I’m good with it. For me, this is how tattooing is supposed to be. Dangerous. For a certain hard living breed. Dermagraphic boutiques are for 'Frisco, for kids with credit cards. For pussies.

FTW is our creed.

God, sometimes I’m such an idiot.

After the tattoo we strike up a friendship of sorts and I start to hang out at the studio. We drink coffee and talk shit all night.

Fun City was an outlaw salon. Famous actors, painters, writers, musicians all make the scene. Oscar winners, dope dealers. Philosophizing, planning scores.

I learn about tattooing and other unsavory acts.

A high ranking 1%er schools me on the importance of club colors, how to pose as a Dr and order really cool stuff from medical supply shops.

One night it’s Jim Jarmusch talking about the fine art ofpicking up Puerto Rican chicks. Another night it’s painting and hot rods with Robert Williams. Really sick shit with Joe Coleman. Iggy Pop comes and goes. Hells Angels talk photography and publishing. The patois shifts from English to Portuguese to French to Street.

The soundtrack is the buzz of a tattoo machine.

This illegal renaissance created by an asshole tattooartist.

Still, he is capable being a good guy.

One night a gangbanger from the hood complains about a tattoo artist in Brooklyn who gave him a bad tattoo. He is going to kill him. JS talks him out of it. Explaining that nearly everybody has at least one or two bad tattoos. It's part of the process.

Later JS tells me "It's not good to encourage people to kill tattoo artists."

But there are other stories. The legends. Like this one.

A new, very talented, young artist is working out of an apartment down the street from Fun City. He soon moves to San Francisco. Rumors float of a message being delivered. "Stop tattooing or your fingers will be broken so that they heal like a claw".  

It doesn’t matter if it’s true or if the young artist even existed. We never hear JS tell it. Others whisper it and that’s enough.

Truth is smoky. Slippery.

It was a time of tall tales and ghost stories.

That’s why we all ended up at Fun City.

If you want truth you came to the wrong place.

We came to Fun City for ink and blood.

We came to create legends.