The day started at my home in Healdsburg and ended at a tattoo parlor in a Las Vegas mall that I came out of with a brand new tattoo on the upper right side of my back.
Yes, the deed is great. Yes it is colorful. As for the ink, it’s pretty straightforward these days too: three hearts stacked and shaded in red, adorned with a wraparound banner that has my three daughters’ names in capital letters.
All in all, the experience was a stopover on an unexpected journey into life as a single father. But this is a story about my tattoo, not my divorce.
It may seem unusual that I went all the way to Vegas to get a tattoo. For me, however, the city has become a home away from home.
As a travel and gambling writer, I’ve covered the city for almost 20 years; During that time, I’ve written parts of 15 travel guides and written dozens of articles on everything from game inventors to butt models. I know the city better than most of the locals. I have as many friends there as I have in my community here in Wine Country.
My connection with Las Vegas is more than just work. As a Type A New York transplant who lives loudly, the garish city resonates inside me. Visiting is like an exaggerated zest for life that I haven’t found anywhere else outside of NYC. I feed on the energy of the city. This phenomenon is both rejuvenating and invigorating; For as long as I can remember, Las Vegas has been my go-to place for a dose of positivity when I feel exhausted, defeated, or run down. Simply put, it’s one of the places on earth where I feel the most.
Of course, Las Vegas had to play a big part in the transition to my new reality. It also seemed like a good setting for one of my first official acts of independence: the tattoo.
“The Tat” has appealed to me for years. In 2015, after the birth of my youngest, I remember taking the idea as an obligation to put them and their sisters first. Before the pandemic, I flew to Vegas about once a month; Every now and then I would visit some of the 200 tattoo parlors in the area for “research” purposes. I just never felt ready.
Fast forward to this year. I filed for divorce in mid-March. At the beginning of May I was completely vaccinated. Sometime around June 1st, I was ready to book my first trip to Las Vegas in 14 months. So I looked at the calendar and it occurred to me: The girls would be with their mum on Father’s Day.
I saw it as a sign.
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The first and most important step was to find the right artist. I wasn’t sure what the tattoo was supposed to look like, but I knew I wanted it to be traditional American style. This is the cartoon ink you see on old sailors, and to me it would be a tribute to my paternal grandfather who had a “hula girl” tattoo on his forearm that he made “dance” by tightening his muscles .
Eventually, a friend recommended Amanda Hoffman, an artist in Dirk Vermins grungy Pussykat Tattoo Parlor near the University of Nevada campus, Las Vegas. I sent her a deposit through Venmo and booked the last slot of the afternoon.
My alarm clock woke me up around 5 a.m. on Father’s Day. No kids, no cards, no breakfast in bed – just me and my suitcase.
Sure it was bittersweet; For a moment, I was saddened to have to give up some of the married man rituals that I enjoyed at my first 12 Father’s Day celebrations. Then it occurred to me: This pilgrimage to my special place was the ultimate homage to the next phase of fatherhood, a worthy celebration of the joy my daughters bring me every day.
As I rolled into Pussykat, Hoffman greeted me with honesty that made me feel like I was being seen and validated at the same time.
“I can’t be with my dad today, but I think that’s a pretty cool alternative,” she said.
We spent the first 45 minutes discussing design. With heavy metal booming in the background, I told her what I wanted while she sketched on an iPad. The walls were covered with drawings of her work, and I pointed out touches I would like to see in mine: shades on hearts, a wraparound banner, those exaggerated capital letters.
Finally I asked her to list the girls in the order of their birth on the banner; the 12-year-old at the top, the almost 10-year-old in the middle, the 5.5-year-old last. When she showed me the sketch, I burst into tears.
I don’t remember much about the tattooing process. I was on the table for about 90 minutes. It was hot. When it hurt, I closed my eyes and dreamed of the places I would like to take the girls to as a vaccinated family of four: Hawaii, my hometown on Long Island in the east, the San Juan Islands in Washington.
When Hoffman finished, a friend came over to take pictures. Because of its placement, I couldn’t see the tattoo directly, so these photos were more valuable to me than a progressive jackpot at Pai Gow Poker, my favorite table game in Vegas.
I quickly sent a picture to my elder who had been bothering me about one all day. Her answer: “OMG” followed by a thumbs-up emoji.
I spent the rest of my Father’s Day trip to Vegas with a constant smile. Although the girls were 600 miles away with their mother, they were with me too while I was lugging around like I usually do when I’m in town. We had some great meals in new restaurants. We toured a large, shiny Resorts World hotel. We sweated out some sports betting. We spent an afternoon in a dark tiki bar. The girls even spiritually joined me when I asked strangers to put aquaphore on the tattoo to keep it moist (seriously). You will be amazed how easy it is to make friends with this line.
If life as a single father means that I have to voluntarily give up half of my time with the three most important people in my life, at least now I will never have to do without them again. Las Vegas has given me a lot over the years. This is without question the greatest gift of all.
Matt Villano is a writer and editor based in Healdsburg. Learn more about him at www.walhead.com.
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