Tony Fitzpatrick

Artist, actor, writer Tony Fitzpatrick has a new book out soon, The Sun at the End of the Road: Dispatches from an American Life, with an opening celebration at Great Lakes Tattoo in the West Loop on October 4.

Fitzpatrick sports many tattoos himself, several of which are his own designs. In addition to being a sought-after space to get inked, Great Lakes Tattoo is also home to the Great Lakes Tattoo Gallery, a dedicated art space. Fitzpatrick shared with CGN an excerpt from the forthcoming book, which can be purchased from Eckhartz Press here. – GV

THE MYSTERY OF COCK ROBIN (1969)

More and more, an Albert Camus quote—about artists taking a long, arduous journey to rediscover the images which first opened their heart—feels true to me. As a kid, I loved signs, and Chicago was full of them.

I memorized signs in Villa Park and Lombard as a way of navigating, and I especially loved the Cock Robin one because of the rainbow cones you could get there: three neon-bright, square scoops of sherbet. I also loved their burgers, which is not to say they were good. They weren’t. They were buffalo pucks but, as a kid, I ate all manner of garbage—happily—and I never stopped loving these. As a teen, Cock Robin was a safe place to hang out. The management didn’t seem to mind, as long as you consumed your share of Silver Dollar shakes and burgers. It was on Main Street, a draw for every kind of kid: greasers, potheads, jocks and oddballs like me were welcome. Kids from different cliques got to know each other and flirt with one another. I came to realize greaser girls were hot, but you ran the risk of getting your ass kicked for chatting them up. I’ll never forget the place. It is locked forever in the amber of my memory. Especially that sign—with its jauntily dressed robin, complete with top hat. I almost got a tattoo of it. Hell, I still might.

Me and my delinquent friends took delight in informing the nuns we were going to “CA-a-a-h-h-C-K Robin.” They were a humorless lot of Felicians—mostly Polish, mostly from the old country. Sister Asunta was a straight-up psychopath. She would beat the snot out of you with beads, fists and the knotted rope she wore around her habit, signifying she was, in fact, a Bride of Christ. No wonder Jesus died a virgin. The nuns suspected we were saying something dirty but couldn’t really prove it. Knowing us though? They guessed it was unsavory and sinful, which is what we intended.

I can tell what kind of neighborhood I’m in—anywhere in the world—just by their signs. The drive on Los Angeles’ Sunset Blvd from the Pacific to downtown LA takes you through every American circumstance and appetite, from penthouse to outhouse and back again. One minute, you’re driving through tony Bel-Air, and soon you’re among the walking wounded of East LA. The drive is amazing at night, when Los Angeles looks like a fleet, dark, sleek animal decked out in lights. I get what people love about it; on that majestic ride, everything looks possible. There are no Cock Robin burger joints in LA; they have Rick’s Drive In & Out—way better food, with an iconic sign of its own.

People who have had near-death experiences say, “Your life flashes before your eyes,” or some such jive. Maybe they’re not all the way wrong; I experienced something like it during my heart surgery. I found myself revisiting familiar places, situations and circumstances. Like déjà vu, but with greater resonance: the images that had first opened my heart. I saw the Cock Robin sign, and their rainbow sherbet cone from forty years ago; I saw the side of our ranch house from my childhood, where my mother grew lily of the valley and my sister kept rabbits. They felt like missives from a childhood, waving goodbye.

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