And in this corner… | March 30, 2018

I’ve always had a problem with the color of my skin.
Let me clarify. It’s the lack of color of my skin that’s the problem. I’m saying there is no color. Translucent. Transparent. Blinding white. So white I’m almost blue. Void of melanin. If I had my own theme songs, they would be “A Whiter Shade of Pale” or “Blinded by the Light.”
Get the picture?
I’ve always been very self-conscious of my skin color. I’ve been embarrassed and humiliated more than once because of it. Being so pale kept me shy and reserved, and I was reluctant to participate in social events with kids from my school or even summer camp. It’s been an impediment to me for years.
Being this pale ended my dream of becoming a professional surfer at an early age. True story. There was an older girl in the neighborhood that shared her Surfer and Surfing magazines with me, and I was immediately enchanted by the huge curls and tubes. I really loved the beach and the whole idea of a surfer’s life. No chance.

And I have always loved body-boarding. As a pre-teen, I’d be at Seal Beach with a friend and would come home red as a lobster each time, so I gave it up. In college I inherited a full-body wetsuit that would cover me (but I would still dress and undress in the car). And when I finally discovered rash guards, it was a new world! I could have a top on in the water and be normal.
I avoided going to pool parties because I’d hear “Put a shirt on!” or “Get a tan!” I’m the guy that wore a T-shirt in the pool with that white stuff on my nose. I was the only guy at the beach wearing jeans. When I did wear shorts, I would pull my tube socks up really high while out skateboarding or playing. I have always been jealous of those that had brown skin and were so comfortable going shirtless out in the sun.
As a kid, I ran around with a sunburned face, neck, back and arms. Blisters were common, too. The only brown I ever got on my legs would be the numerous bruise spots I had from playing. I had countless nights of going to bed coated in Noxzema.
When I played soccer, I begged my sadistic coaches to put me on “shirts” for the daily shirts vs. skins scrimmage. Why did they always seem to insist I was on skins? My mom even wrote a note to the coach, but he must have forgotten because I was on the skins team again.
Have I made myself clear enough about the issue?
Fast-forward a few decades, and enter the tattoo gun.
At age 38, I got my first two tattoos. Before then, I had never ever wanted one, never considered myself a “tattoo type” and had seen all those guys with the bad 1990s tribal tattoos that I couldn’t relate to. Weren’t tattoos just for sailors anyway? But one night while driving home, I had an epiphany about getting tattoos of my favorite things. Just two. I figured if I put them on my upper thighs no one would see them, no one would know, and I still wouldn’t be a “tattoo guy.”
On a Friday night, I drove down PCH to Sunset Beach to find Sharky’s Tattoo Shop. The artist was standing out front having a smoke, and I asked him, “You have time?” He showed me the way into the low-frills shop and thus began a beautiful relationship with the artist and ink.
My first tattoo was “U2″ with a white flag. I anxiously paced around the shop watching as the artist got his station ready. He poured the black ink into the little plastic cups, loaded the needle into his machine, squeezed out the ointment onto the table, got his paper towels stacked, shaved my leg and cleaned the spot with alcohol, and applied the purple stencil of the design.
I remember the first sting of the needle for the outline and the scratching of the seven-needle shading in of the design. Afterwards, I drove home with the sensation of road rash thinking how cool it was to walk into the shop with a blank canvas and come out with something permanent. And there was color on my leg! The ink addiction began that night. Next week I’d go back to get the USC football helmet logo on the other thigh.

It became my Friday-night ritual with Tim Cotter of Sharky’s. Heading to the shop after work, walking in and hearing the buzz of the machines, the loud music, the random strangers getting work next to me and telling their stories. I spent hours on the table at Sharky’s staring up at the fluorescent lights as the artist transformed my pale canvas into one of designs of choice.
Two tattoos were OK, but I figured if I could keep them hidden on my hips then what’s the problem with more? No one at work would know. I took out my notebook and started to make a list. My hips led to ankles and which led to feet. All that ink would still be hidden so I kept going. I had a “Blair File” at the tattoo shop with lists and photos of favorite images. I even bought Tim a book of fonts so we could get some favorite song lyrics on my leg. Soon came Groucho Marx, Bob Marley, David Bowie, Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Louise Brooks, Buddha, Shiva, Felix the Cat, Poindexter, Robot Maria from Metropolis, tributes to reggae music, favorite lyrics, a self-designed tarot card, a personal crest for my 40th birthday, band logos, the St. Joe lighthouse, and witch and moon done in Salem, Mass.
I got my right foot tattooed with the Joshua Tree from the U2 album and vowed to never go back again because it felt like a sledgehammer crushed my foot. But a few weeks later I went back to do it again on my left foot because I just had to have balance, so Rush’s “Star Man” went there.
When I ran out of spaces hidden by shorts or socks, I crossed the 38th parallel and went for the leg. The first piece that was going to show would have to be in full color, so I chose Picasso’s “Girl Before a Mirror.” Tim said “You have the perfect skin to keep all these colors vibrant.” I was thrilled. My pasty skin was now bursting with bright reds, blues, greens and purples. Since my first Picasso was a success, I figured I had to get one on my other leg for balance, right? Picasso’s “The Dream” went on the next Friday night.
When I was ready to progress to more portrait styles, I reached out to and fell in love with the work of Kari Barba, owner of Outer Limits Tattoo in Long Beach. She set me up in her private studio and inked in my “self-portrait” as a scarecrow wearing my signature pair of Adidas holding a ball of fire. (You see, I’m as sensitive and delicate as a scarecrow and can sometimes push the boundaries and play with fire.) Since then, Kari did two more masterpieces for me.
The most recent pieces honor my parents, and now I’m ready to get one to honor my buddy Kevin. One day I’ll take Marley’s signature and have her sign my skin permanently.
Those original two tattoos eventually became 38, and my legs are now a gallery. Most people opt for their arms and get “sleeves.” I guess you can say I have “pants.”
My skin is no longer ghostly white. It’s loaded with colors! And through all the excruciating pain (yes, each tattoo hurt) I was given a surprise reward. For the first time in my life I have heard “You have perfect skin!” “I love your legs.” “You have a great canvas.” “You’re so lucky your palette is so white.”
So, now I can tell you all that I have less of a problem with the color, or colors, of my skin and actually enjoy wearing shorts without shame. I can still keep all of the ink covered up and be a professional during the work day— but look for me during the weekends, and the gallery will be open to the public. (But you still won’t see me with my shirt off anywhere— at least for now).