The Art of San Diego

I'm moving again. Moving really sucks, just so you know. Yesterday I was working on packing up my library of books. I say library because I've kept every book I've every owned in the hopes of having my personal library one day. It's still a work in progress. As I'm putting books into boxes, I open one up that I've had since I was very new in the navy. When I was in the navy, I would stick documents or similar things in my books that I wanted to keep or use them as bookmarks. I open this book called "The Aardvark is Ready for War" and see a sticker I had put in there as a bookmark sometime in late 1995. This was while I was going to my comm school in San Diego. The sticker was for a place called Primal Art Body Piercing that I visited. That, my friends, was an interesting night. 

I arrived in San Diego in August of 1996, just after boot camp. I reported to the Service School Command to complete Radioman A school. I was nineteen years old and new to the larger world. 

San Diego is a pretty short distance from Tijuana, Mexico. I'm either wrong or was way naive but I don't believe Mexico was quite the drug war zone it is today. The brand new and often underage sailors from the base could take the short trip to Tijuana and drink their paycheck away, see the notorious donkey show, or do any manner of wild and crazy things. The problem was that a drunken nineteen year old sailor was a prime target to get thumped and robbed. Some were even cut or stabbed. The base commander, as you can imagine, didn't like such things happening to his sailors. The solution was to lower the drinking age on base to eighteen years old for beer only. This was designed to keep the young and stupid teen sailors drunk but nice and safe on base. It was a much different time. 

So the night begins. Myself and four of my sailor buddy's are at the base bowling alley. The base was in the process of being closed down for the post Cold War drawdown. This was really the only place to go for beer or otherwise. We had not been out of boot camp long enough to earn the privilege of wearing civilian clothes so we were wearing our "working white" uniform. It was white of course, with an short sleeve button up shirt with ribbons and rank insignia that we didn't have yet. We looked like milk men. 

We drink pitcher after pitcher of cheap domestic beer. We become quite lubricated after a bit. In this jolly state of ours, we decide that we all need Popeye tattoos. Popeye was a sailor, we are sailors, we are drunk. It makes perfect sense. 

We drunkenly shamble off base and down Rosecrans Avenue, the main street in front of the base. We are surely a sight to see, drunk children, wearing milk man costumes, stumbling around in public. We know from previous and non drunk experience there is a tattoo parlor just down the road. 

We stumble into the tattoo parlor and begin to explain our genius idea of us all getting Popeye tattoos. The owner politely listens then informs us that he cannot give us tattoos in our drunken state. 

We are greatly disappointed this night. We wander around, dejected. We eventually stumble upon Primal Art Piercing and Jewelry. The owner is named Art. Art is AWESOME, probably because we are drunk teenagers from Podunk. Art has many tattoos, sweet tattoos, all over. Art has a brand on his calf, a real brand like a cow. It's in the shape of a hand with a spiral in the palm. Art listens to rap music and metal, like with cuss words and everything. Art has those things in his earlobes that make a really big hole. He has piercings, many piercings. We again collectively get another brilliant idea. 

We decide that what we really need tonight is not a Popeye tattoo, but we need our nipples pierced. We explain our plan to Awesome Art. He also tells us that he cannot do such a thing in our current state. We beg, we plead, but he will not relent. He does say that we can hang out with him is his shop, which is awesome. 

Art knows a lot of cool things. Art explains to us that a nipple piercing on a guy is one of the most painful you can get. You see, men don't have big nipples. You have to go behind the areola and basically pierce the pectoral muscle. Holy shit! Thanks for turning us away, Awesome Art. Art also tells us he has a Prince Albert. "A what?", say we. Art explains he has the head of his wiener pierced, both vertically and horizontally. It's like a medieval weapon dick. The look on our faces only encourages him. He says a Prince Albert is a fully manual piercing. It takes twelve seconds to accomplish. A metal rod on one side, a cork or something on the other. Your frightened dong is shaking in terror in the middle. Twelve seconds of pushing a rod through your wiener head. He did this to himself, twice. Art has transcended awesome. He is officially bad ass now. 

We hang with Art for awile. A woman comes in and gets her nipple pierced. We ask to watch but are declined. We listen to Art's CD's. We begin to sober up so we head home to our barracks. We thank Bad Ass Art for the interesting evening.

The next day, one of the guys I was with goes back to the tattoo shop and gets his Popeye tattoo. I don't remember his name but I do remember that I was glad I didn't get my own Popeye. It was pretty lame when I was sober. I did get a navy tattoo later. A traditional sailor's tattoo explaining my sea travels and adventures. It's much better than a Popeye.  

I don't know if Art still has a shop there. I thought about calling the number just to see, but that would be kind of weird. 

The navy base where we lived is long gone, along with the bowling alley that entertained us all those years ago. The base was turned over to private development a few years after we left. Google maps shows it to be a parking lot for a strip mall, along with our barracks. 

The navy no longer allows eighteen year olds to drink anywhere. You get in trouble for that now when you get caught. 

The milk man uniform is long gone as well. The navy has had a serious fashion spree in the last few years, changing uniforms several times for no real reason. Now they wear some black and khaki thing that makes everyone look like an officer, and that ridiculous blue camouflage. I guess that is so when you fall overboard, they don't want to be able to see you. 

It's funny how one cheap giveaway sticker can bring back so many memories. I'm glad I held onto it for all these years. Thanks for the sticker, Art. Wherever you are.