OK, enough of that Oregon lesson stuff. You all got an A on the pop quiz. Now we will move to what is intimately important to each of us as we contemplate the life-changing decision we each must make at some point: tattoo, yes? Tattoo, no?
Don't move impetuously to your decision because tattoos are forever and once in place they are like a bad habit you can't break. Full disclosure: I'm not a fan of skin art. But, apparently, there are a few billion people who don't give a hoot what I think and keep those injection needles drilling. It is estimated that one in five Americans has at least one tattoo.
In the gym where I work out I marvel at some of the body modifications on display by both men and women. And they are often on body parts you wouldn't necessarily want to call attention to. Some of the guys have both arms completely drilled with black, wavy, thick lines with jagged edges that look like nothing in particular. Seeing that, my mind says "What the F were you thinking?"
The oldest known tattoo was on a chap named Otzi who lived in the Alps around 3,300 BCE. Not sure what form his tat took but its my guess a female was involved even if formal names had yet to be invented. Which is a cautionary note for young men today: Tattooing the name of a female anywhere on your body is the least good idea you will ever have. The bumpy road of romance is strewn with cooled and cast aside one-time hot understandings and finding another arrangement with the same name dramatically narrows the availabilities.
Gregory Paul McLaren would catch your eye with his record-holding array of tats covering 100% of his body. Tattoo artist: "So, Greg, what'll you have, my brother?" Greg: "One of everything". George C. Reiger Jr. comes in second with only 99% of his body covered with art Disney gave him permission to use. His 1,000 tattoos of the Disney characters include all 101 Dalmatians.
Maybe I'll change my mind. Maybe I'll honor my father's long life working on the railroad by having a 50-car classic railroad train (with graffiti on the sides of the box cars) tattooed with the caboose over my heart connected to the box cars going across my chest and under my right arm. Then around my back coming out from under my left arm and so on until the train goes into the tunnel around back with black smoke from the engine bellowing out of the tunnel entrance.
Cry your eyes out, Gregory Paul.
Maybe I better think about this.
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