Kill the OLCC, Governor. Kill It Now.

They made it mean something, the choice between cake and pie. Whoever thought as children that the world would grow up cruel enough to pit frosting against filling? History tells us the seeds of revolution came from one too many times hearing, "The proof of the pudding is in the crust." Maybe the kind of place where they do things like write letters, on actual paper, and drink tea understands pudding with crust, but we make no attempt to understand it here.

The pie people called the cake people "gimmicky." Too much precedence placed on sugar flowers and fancy writing and those little plastic dinosaurs and clowns and princesses that make their way to the center of most celebrations, only to be rescued from sweet sludge, licked clean, and displayed like precious mementos along a child's favorite shelf. People who eat cake suffer from arrested development. The cake people called the pie people old-fashioned, equating a fondness for the much-maligned crust with other dubious things, like leaving your Christmas decorations up past Valentine's Day and playing the state lottery.

It would not be accurate to refer to Jeff Johnson’s collection of wryly-funny anecdotes and sometimes frightening tales in Tattoo Machine as simply a memoir. Instead, Johnson-the co-owner of Sea Tramp Tattoo Company in Portland-uses his life experiences to help tell the story of the tattoo industry itself (though he isn’t quite sure when it became an “industry”). The reader learns about his turbulent childhood dabbling in drugs, and how he came to be the remarkable artist he is today through a series of lessons regarding different aspects of the business.
Johnson’s tales also describe the fascinating (and occasionally terrifying) characters that he’s come across in his 18 years tattooing. There were the large, stereotypically-gangster gun-toting men, whose leader wanted “Shaniqua” across his chest (the freaked-out and sweating Johnson had to quickly hide the fact that he’d accidentally written “Shaqu”). But the scariest individual who has walked into his shop was the tall, thin man who wanted a woman’s name and nine numbers across his chest. The first thing that came to Johnson’s mind was that it looked an awful lot like a social security number and when Johnson saw his back, he realized that this guy was covered in names and numbers. The next thing Johnson knew, there was a flash of white and the man was gone. The flash of white was the release form and the dude fled, taking anything he’d touched with him.