Illustrated Woman

I luuurrve a good tattoo. Not the cheesy cheap-ass flash that you see on a lot of these kids who get loaded and make a trip out to the local TattoosAreUs. Good quality stuff. Made to last, not to be removed a few years later when you come to your senses. I kinda miss the days when it was still a big-fat-scarlet-she-devil-notorious-motherslockupyerboys thing to do. I got my first tattoo when I was 18. It was a diminutive floral ditty on my then boyish hip--the equivalent of getting full-on tats on both arms these days, though. Now it wouldn't even raise the eyebrow of a Sunday school teacher. Perhaps I should have had mine dated and signed. Verification of my hardcore tattoo-chick status for those who might confuse me with the nouveau tattoo poseurs. I only came close to that old feeling that it was something special when I was in New York last year and dropped by the American Museum of Natural History to check out the body art exhibit. There I was, strolling though the hall, and I look up to see a photo by Larry. Larry did the two goldfish on my back...he's an amazing artist. Had I not been accompanied by an uptight Brit who would have been aghast at me stripping off my sweater and sharing the "real deal" with the other museum patrons, I would have staged my own little performance art exhibition right there. Nevertheless, it was one of those small moments of coolness that make life completely groovy. I spent the rest of the day looking a bit like the Cheshire Cat.

(no subject)

Hey, John Hannah, will you marry me?