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MIAMI INK: Part Four: Resolution: The Confessional |
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MIAMI INK: Part Four: Resolution: The Confessional
LEMONADE
“I don’t want to do it,” I say to my producer upon returning from my walk. “I don’t know why those guys are being such d-bags. I’m not some star-struck little starlet desperate to get on TV.”
“And I hope you don’t think that we are insinuating that at all. I would do the same thing,” she says. “But we need to film the resolution, so just go in the green room, chill out and when you go in there, you can tell him your decision.”
“Will I get my deposit back?” I ask. I really need that hundred bucks.
“Of course,” she says. “The thing is, we really like your story and want to get some of it in. Just hang out in the A/C, cool off a bit and we will come get you.” I don’t think that she means for me to physically cool off.
I return to the green room. Thank God I kept a mini-Jack Daniels from my flight. And I just happen to have it in my purse. I get a coke, slam the Jack down and look for my iPod. I cross my legs, close my eyes and focus on my breath.
“She’s going to her happy place,” one of the casting agents says. Yes, my happy place. That’s exactly where I am going. It doesn’t take much for me to calm my nerves. Music. Meditation. And a healthy shot of booze. I decide I will go in with an open mind and do my best to stay present. I don’t care about the cameras. I don’t care about the resolution for the sake of some TV time. I just want to say my piece to Chris.
After quite some time, one of the PA’s returns. “They’re ready for you,” he says.
I go outside and have to wait in the sweltering heat yet again for my golden entrance. Ami appears.
“How ya doin’?” he asks.
“Fine.” I reply flatly.
“Isn’t there anything else you want to get?” he says dryly. He seems frustrated with my insistence to get my design.
“Yeah Ami, I want a fuckin’ butterfly on my ankle,” it’s my turn to snap. Where are the cameras when you really need them? That was a good one. I roll my eyes thinking, I’m 27 years old and don’t have a single tattoo anywhere on my body. Yeah, instead of my design that represents the entire philosophy I live my life by and my company I’ve invested everything in, why don’t I just settle for a ladybug somewhere….
My producer reappears. She looks frustrated and pissed. Not with me, with something else. There is some kind of commotion going on over the headset that she is listening to. She keeps trying to interject a statement, but continuously gets cut off. She must be listening to The Wizard.
“Yup,” she says, “Ok. Yup. Fine.” She looks at me sympathetically. “He won’t do it. He won’t even do the resolution. Chris refuses to go back on camera. He doesn’t want to have to say no again and look like a dick.”
“He already looks like a dick,” I say. I am pissed. But not pissed that I’m not going on TV or getting a tattoo or that my logo is technically impossible to ink any of that crap. That isn’t what bothers me. What bothers me is that this would have been a lovely piece of information to have before I spent the money and, more importantly, the time to fly down to Miami. I hate wasting time. It is precious and we have very little of it in life. I don’t like it when people are inconsiderate of that fact. I don’t like it at all.
I go back to the green room, grab my bag, my deposit, say goodbye to the nice and very apologetic producers and leave with my dignity. As I am walking down the alley, Chris Garver is out back smoking a butt. He actually waves at me as I walk by. I throw him the bird. What a jackass.
Cut. Scene. Print. To the confessional booth I go….
Chris, I’m sure you are brilliant at what you do—but the true test of character is how a person performs in response to a challenge; not how great you are when you are in the mood. You fail that test in my eyes. It is pretty disappointing that you did not rise to the technical challenge that OON-the-little-logo-that-could posed for you, especially given the fact that you apprenticed in Japan. You obviously learned a lot about the craft, but clearly picked up very little of their culture; their work ethic, their devotion to mastering the technical aspect of their trade or their obsession with precision—no matter how mundane or “impossible” the task might seem. In fact, that night after the whole debacle, I went out with my friend to get sushi. I watched the sushi chef literally unroll a cucumber with a knife. All I could think of was how this guy had more talent, focus and integrity in his pinky than you have in your whole body.
You previously approved the artwork yourself. You are supposedly one of the “best tattoo-artists in the world” (a title that although you might deserve based on your work alone, you certainly don’t deserve based on your behavior) yet you then proceeded to tell me you didn’t want to do the tattoo, and gave me a long list of pathetic excuses behind your reasoning: you haven’t slept in 24-hours, you are in a bad mood as long as the cameras are rolling, you forgot ever approving the artwork and do I want something else like a fairy? Yadda yadda yadda, blah blah blah. Nothing is more irritating than a giant ego-maniac who doesn’t take responsibility for his own incompetence.
I don’t appreciate the rude and spineless way I was treated by the artists. Don’t take it out on me that I have a design none of you can do. One of you geniuses should have recognized that fact before I ever got on the plane.
I would like to personally thank all of the competent, hard-working people in production. You do a great job and were very kind to me. I realize none of this was your fault. It’s too bad that you all have to apologize for one individual’s cowardly behavior, but please know that I respect you all and appreciate your attempts to make up for Mr. Garver’s bad form.
What have I learned? That everything does happen for a reason, and I am always grateful when the universe steps in and makes a decision for me, no matter how irrational and inconvenient it may seem at the moment. Looking back, I’m sure the tattoo would have been shit and I would have spent the rest of my life hating it and regretting the fact that I ever did it.
I’ve also learned that reality television is just about as unrealistic as television can get. I am still waiting for the reality show to evolve to the point where the participants can just look at the camera, speak directly to the audience, and say, “Now this shit is FUCKED up!! Can you believe this guy? What a dick!” The problem with current reality shows is that they underestimate how savvy their audience is. We all know the cameras are there. You would be better off letting the participants acknowledge that. We live in such a self-reflexive, mediated society that everyone would appreciate the honesty. Forget the whole confessional. It’s time reality TV got raw. And then, in my dreams, the final evolution of reality TV will be LIVE reality TV. Can you imagine that shit? Now that would be worth watching.
Article Series
This article is part 4 of a 4 part series. Other articles in this series are shown below:
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MIAMI INK: Part One: Back-Story: The Facts
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MIAMI INK: Part Two: Characters: The Personalities
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MIAMI INK: Part Three: Action: The Twist
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MIAMI INK: Part Four: Resolution: The Confessional
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