There is a perfect ratio to just about everything. We recommend the perfect ratio. It’s perfect. It’s flawless. We submit to the perfect ratio or die an idiot. It could be 1 cigarette a day, 10 cigarettes a day, 2 packs of cigarettes a day. It could be a double shot of single origin espresso (preferably Ethiopian), an almond milk sumatran coffee milkshake shaken by the tender hands of a extremely recent newborn’s mother, 1-3 episodes of CSI: Miami, a chapter of non-fiction, half a chapter of fiction, 3 valid-ish points of a TIME article guaranteeing a healthy lifestyle, a 15-minute session of self-analysis, 1 call to mom, then 5-minutes of self-deprecation, 2 brush-sessions of teeth, and 1 glass of water before bedtime… a day. It's a sworn-to-work equilibrium and why does no one else abide by it? We may never know. But this search has to stop somewhere. Could it be the tattoo?
I once saw a man who understood the perfect ratio. He was a happy man. He was successful. He survived Hurricane Katrina. He had 4 years-worth of dry food. He was confident. He statistically had 98% of his body tattooed. He loved checkerboards. His whole head was a checkerboard. “I live in a checkered apartment, with my checkered couch, and my cats, and various women,” he said. His whole freaking body was tatt’d yo. He also had a terminal kidney disease. He took multiple steroids a day. “These tattoos make me not hate my body, even though my body seems to be hating me,” he said. I reckon he tattooed with a purpose.
Do tattoos have to have meaning? No. It flabbergasts me to say, but no. For me to get a tattoo, I would have to explain it to my mother. That’s my deal. I could not just say, “What do you mean you don’t get it Mom? It’s a bear wearing roller blades chomping into a giant lollipop Mom, what’s not to get? Why on my forehead Mom? Because I am not held down to the world’s injustices on social standards, Mom! Geez louise Mom! Get it through your skull!” It would not go down well. I want to get a tattoo; I am just making sure I don’t need tattoos. They sound very religiously sticky and addicting, these tattoos. They sound enchanted. Do tattoos really make you love your body? I do not hate my body, and my body does not hate me, so do I need a tattoo? Should I hate my body? Maybe one day.
I used to think that a tattoo took chutzpah or some kind of inner-boldness. Like people with tattoos were these stonewalls who never thought twice about crying during Marley and Me or The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. Especially the ones that got tattoos just because “it looked cool”. Now that’s balls. My friend got a tattoo on his thigh once: ‘G. Palm’ it reads.
“Why?” I say.
“Because Garrett Palmer paid for it.” he says.
“Ooooooo” I say, like a new car was being revealed on the Price is Right.
He had chutzpah. Balls so big he is planning on not ever telling his parents. Those kind of balls make me feel like I am missing the point.
What is the point? When I am down in the gutter, I look to be uplifted by wisdom. Wisdom comes from many different sources. Sometimes it comes from men with funny hats (the pope or sophisticated man with fedora) or it comes from businesses that depress me like The Ed Hardy.
"Tattoo the world.” The Ed Hardy says.
"You won't regret it. Leave your mark. Yeeeah, leave your mark." I feel like The Ed says. "Tattoo the shirts. Yeahhhhh, that’s right… the shirts. Now tattoo that belt buckle baby. That’s right. You’ll want to wear this forever, kind of like a real tattoo. Next thing you know, you will intimidate everyone into accepting you. Yeahhhhh, wear lots of cologne. Leave your mark baby."
What is the point? Does The Ed Hardy just get it? What kind of tone does "tattoo the world" have? Whatever it is, it smells like idiot. Maybe I am jealous. I can not help but admit to the fact that Christian Audigier (owner of Ed Hardy, you would think Ed Hardy would be the owner… whatever; I digress) is successful, but I tried to see what he had to say on youtube, and all I got was slideshows of him throwing his hands up while it is pouring confetti and him straddling a non-moving motorcycle. Through out the whole slide show the beat of electric house dance music played and Christian Audigier, without fail, would be sporting an intense yelling face. Faux chutzpah.
Despite The Ed Hardy’s attempt to be hip and juicy and couture, there are people who are out there with tattoos that are awesome. You know who you are. Stop smiling, but you guys rule. I think I get it. I had a friend who got a tattoo after no one showed up to his New Years party. When he held the same party the next year, we went, but I always wonder what he might have done if no one showed up. I love you Josiah; your parties are fun. But hey, maybe that’s you. Or, maybe you wake up and say “Hello Today. I am getting a tattoo.” Good for you. If you really love Seinfeld so much you got George Constanza in his underwear giving a thumbs up on your chest and it has an immense amount of sentimental value to you, good for you. You guys have the chutzpah. And maybe tattoos are not this unhealthy addiction but more like that time when you rose to the crescendo and kissed someone helping you realize just how awesome it was. Up until then though, you denied it and made excuses like “she has fungus lips” or “he has no financial stability. This will go nowhere”. But then you did it and you were like “Damn yo that ruled!”
That’s what I am getting at. Even if your parents and the rest of your family genealogy said “tattoos are f’d” but you did it anyways. Thank you. The world spins for things like that. Maybe your dad warned you about his friend Frank: “Remember Frank? He had that tattoo of the anchor with the rope wrapped around it on his arm? Well he is doing just great ever since he got tattoos. Now he is reading and writing all the time in SOLITARY CONFINEMENT and his baby mama is pregnant with twins… I remember telling him specifically, ‘No Frank! Don’t get that tattoo!’ And now he is behind bars.” to which your only response was,
“I’m not Frank.”
Thank you. You are not Frank.
Maybe Tattoos is your end-all-be-all to the grand scheme of the perfect ratio. Or maybe they are your initial stake into embarking a life of mystique and chaos. Tattoos can go past skin-deep purposes and meaning, or could simply be a cool or funny thing to look at while you sit in a waiting room or the seat of a toilet. I want to leave you with a definition of what a tattoo is, but I can't. If anything, I have only accused tattoos of being everything to one and nothing to another.
Here it is: tattoos are inanimate. They are what you make of them. If your grandma is afraid of you and claims that “she doesn't know her little girl anymore” ever since you got a bird on your hand, she's an idiot. Your grandma is an idiot. Maybe your boring hand was a flawless piece of work before it was tainted, or maybe it helps you remember just how unpredictable you and the world really can be. The world won't remember the boring but will perpetually be amused by those who make questions. The world only spins because there are still questions to be answered like: "Why is there still war?" Or "How can we kill cancer for good?" Or "Why the hell do you have a bird on your hand?" Thank you, tattooed pioneers, that actually have the chutzpah to have something be on you and a part of you for the rest of your life. I for one, have learned to revere your balls.
