The Prison Look

Summer is here. It's time for fun at the beach and the pool. Loads of folks dressing light for their flights to some oasis. Cool comfortable clothing is the order.

And it's also time for the rest of us to be subjected to the growing phenomenon of body art. When I was in JFK Airport the other day, there was a guy getting on ahead of me whose arms were literally covered in some sort of pattern that can only be LSD-induced for most people. A woman on the same flight was already in Pirates of The Caribbean 3 mode as Captain Jack Sparrow smiled at me from a spot between the clavicles of her back.

What the hell are these people thinking? You are sticking dye into living flesh. I don't care what kind of disclaimers they tell you. This can't be good. Why do I think that, twenty years from now, thousands of people are going to be in long term health facilities as a result of toxic poisoning.

Your body is not the Louvre. Are you that low in the self esteem department that you need this kind of attention called to you? And the stuff ain't pretty. Plus when the skin sags, Johnny Depp starts to look like Foster Brooks.

When I was a kid, there was one such tattoo parlor in my neighborhood. Joe's Tattoo Parlor. You could always count on about 4 or 5 motorcycles to be parked outside. The denizens all looked like they knew how to work those shirt folding machines you might in detention centers. When I had to go to the grocery or drug store for my mom, my path always took me past Joe's. And I always managed to hit my top "running an errand" speed as I passed by. Not that I was frightened by the customer base. Nope.

The whirring sound of that freakin' needle was enough to scare the Raisinets out of me.

Now, it's all so chic. Until you realize that it's not so smart to have your old boyfriend's name showing up on your arm in the wedding pictures.

Dinner last night: kobe burger at the Cheesecake Factory.