Juliette Miranda

    I have a secret. More people than I’d care to admit are probably in on it already, which is unfortunate, seeing as how I generally prefer to not come off as an idiot. But the truth is, I wear my stupidity proudly. On my ankle.

Phrases like, “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” dance through my skull from time to time, but all the rationalization in the world won’t soothe the fact that a combination of alcohol and ignorance have lead to a constant source of ridicule. It’s especially bruising for me, the chick who claims to inherently know all things music. Sadly, my inherent knowledge has a few gaps.

All I wanted was a simple tattoo. My life in Los Angeles at the time was hovering somewhere just short of destitute. I had gone to LA looking for music and for life, and all I had to show for it after five years was my cat and the pity dollar a beggar onVentura Boulevard gave me. My return to Chicago was imminent, and I was crushed.But despite all the grief and turmoil I’d experienced in that town, I still wanted to take a part of it back with me. I needed something distinctly my own to carry, something to show for the time I’d spent in tireless pursuit of a dream. I needed a tattoo.

But LA has a funny way of taking even the most pure and heartfelt aspirations and twisting them into something else entirely, and in hindsight, considering just how bad my luck ran in that town, I really should have seen this coming. Because only in LA would I happen to down enough vodka to float a whale. And only in LA would I grab a completely non-musically inclined girlfriend to accompany me to the only tattoo parlor in the city where a non-musician would be available to tattoo a music note onto my ankle.

To his credit, he was a sweet guy and a talented tattoo artist. He was extremely reassuring to a tattoo virgin and showed a great deal of concern about placing the tattoo I’d selected in the most artistically appropriate place. “I think you’ll be most happy with it if we place it like this,” he said, transferring the note outline to a new place on my ankle. He was right: the note seemed to curve around my ankle and flowed better with my skin.

My no-music-knowledge friend clapped her hands and agreed. I smiled, gave him the go-ahead, and let him drive a permanent memento of Los Angeles into my skin. Too bad the music note was backwards.

It wasn’t long before this charming, for-the-rest-of-my-life error was pointed out to me by a helpful musician who had to choke himself to reign in his laughter. I did the only thing I could: I laughed, too.

To this day, some six-plus years later, I frequently lie and tell people that the tattoo is of a 16th note. It’s a load of crap of course, no music note in the history of music looks anything like what I’ve got on my ankle, but most people don’t know that. And those who do just point and laugh. I’m used to it by now.

That silly backwards music note serves as a constant reminder of the silly, backwards life I lived in LA. Neither is perfect, but I’m starting to accept that both are a part of me.

Post script: I’ve since successfully gotten two more tattoos. A treble clef, and, as of last night, a bass clef. My thanks go to Dil, for his hand: to hold, and in ensuring that the bass clef without a doubt faces in the right direction.