No one dons black tie for the annual Inkslingers Ball. That would be in bad taste. A tux would cover up too much skin.
So instead, many of the best-dressed men carry their shirts under their arms as they snake through the crowd and many of the women wear backless tops.
The ball is one of the country's biggest conventions of tattoo artists, also known as ink slingers. And for the last seven years, ink slingers from around the world, most from the West Coast, have gathered in Hollywood for three days of tattoo contests, tattoo tips and tattooing.
Today is the last day of this year's ball, and one of the promoters, Fred Saunders, estimated that more than 9,000 people paid $15 each to get in, once they were patted down by security guards at the front door.
One man who never has to pay is Jack Armstrong, a baldheaded white-bearded legend who has been giving and receiving tattoos for 70 of his 79 years. Wherever ink slingers gather, Mr. Armstrong's name is spoken with respect and awe. ''I've been doing it longer than anyone in the history of tattooing,'' he said. ''I have ink running through my veins.''
That is not too hard to believe. Mr. Armstrong was born in Seattle in the back of his mother's tattoo parlor.
''She birthed me herself,'' he said. ''She was tattooing a sailor who was getting his whole body done when right in the middle she said, 'Well Gus, I'm going to have to take a break.' She went into the room in the back, birthed me and then got up and finished the tattoo.''
Mr. Armstrong received his first tattoo when he was 7. He did it himself and ''got a beating I can still feel.'' When he was 9, after stealing ink and needles from his mother, he set out on his own, crisscrossing the country by bicycle, pulling a little red wagon and inking tattoos for a nickel. He got a lot of business outside of bars around closing time. At 16, he settled in Portland, Ore., and opened a parlor, Jack's House of Tattoos.
''In the old days, you could go into a toilet and tattoo,'' he said. ''I used to use the same needle on 50 people. You can't do that anymore.''
These days, Mr. Armstrong lives in Las Vegas, Nev., and does not do much tattooing anymore. But he still loves to get tattoos. Four years ago, two renowned tattoo artists at a convention in Memphis each inked a skull in one of Mr. Armstrong's ears, just above his hearing aids. ''They did it right on stage,'' said Mr. Armstrong, who gets around in a motorized chair, a cane across his lap. ''The whole convention stopped for 30 minutes while Jack Armstrong got skulls in his ears.''
After telling that story, Mr. Armstrong hoisted himself up out of his chair. ''Are you ready for this?'' he asked, pulling off his shirt and turning his back to reveal a huge tattoo of Jesus, two dozen past presidents of the Mormon Church and himself, looking like Santa Claus in a baseball cap. ''I'm religious,'' Mr. Armstrong said. ''I'm a Mormon.''
Two of the youngest artists at the convention were 17-year-old twin sisters La-c and Amber Greenwood of Tyler, Tex. They began tattooing at 13 because their family owned a parlor. ''This is how we're going to send ourselves to college,'' La-c said.
Not far from the Greenwood sisters' booth, 1 of 107 at the convention, Victor Popkow was showing a videotape of the latest laser technique for removing tattoos. His brother, who is a doctor, performs the procedure at a clinic in West Los Angeles. ''We aren't anti-tattoo,'' Mr. Popkow said. ''This is our third year here, and we just want to give people an alternative.''
He said a lot of people want homemade tattoos that they regret removed or lightened so professional ones can be inked in their place. After every convention, calls at the clinic increase significantly, he said.
During the convention the hum of tattoo needles is constant as people get old tattoos freshened or new ones added at booths such as Tattoo Mania, Psycho City and Freakshow Tattoo, where Mike Ferguson, 26, was working on John Zimmerman's already heavily tattooed right arm. ''The arm's don't hurt so much,'' Mr. Zimmerman, 29, said. ''But getting the back done hurts, and the chest.''
Almost covering his back was a family of tattooed skulls, which has caused him a few problems. Mr. Zimmerman is a custodian at a public school in Simi Valley. He and Mr. Ferguson said other people often look down on people who have tattoos. ''Let me put it to you this way,'' Mr. Zimmerman said. ''It took me six years to become a custodian.''
James Grande, 28, a telephone installer in Brooklyn, said he had not had any trouble because of tattoos. On his chest was a tattoo of a fairy named Buttercup in honor of his daughter Heather, 5, and a fairy named Forget Me Not for his other daughter, Amira, 9. He also had a tattoo of a paw print for his cat, Dirty Frank. ''It's a fun form of self expression,'' Mr. Grande said.
And as his T-shirt said, ''I Ink Therefore I Am.''
-A version of this article appears in print on Sept. 21, 1998, Section A, Page 14 of the National edition with the headline: Los Angeles Journal; Tattoo Artists Bare a Lot (but Not All) at Their Ball.