Jump, Jive, and Pail
I got another tattoo today. It's my fifth. I know. I'm addicted. I probably could have spent the tattoo money on other, more important things, such as food, bills, and alcohol. Hell, I should've just spent the money on alcohol. I would've had enough to stock me with quality shit. I'm tired of MD 20/20 and Night Train. Sure, they're an easy buzz, but my throat has worn away and I insert the bottles directly into my gullet.
I do like tattoos. They're the only permanent investment anyone can make. Nothing else will last you until you die. All things that are, for some reason, have a tendency to disappear. If I get married, there's a fifty percent chance I'll get a divorce. That doesn't exactly convince me that marriage is such a wise investment. Toys get lost. Bonds can appreciate, depreciate, or fuck an unsuspecting investor in the ass. Friends can fade away, much like Neil Young. Tattoos, baby, will last you until the day you die. If you want your tattoo to go away, you've got to cut it off your skin. Now, isn't that fucking loyalty?
I received my fifth one today. It's the first tattoo outside my shirt-line, and I'm quite proud of it. I feel like gushing about how it's, like, totally, the coolest bracelet in the world, and it's like, so fucking deep and stuff.
Well, it is really deep. I would post a picture, but the camera I have now is attached to my very lovely Sidekick-2, and has the comparative visual resolution of a blind man squatting over an electron microscope. In other words, it's blurry as fuck and no one's seeing anything worth shit. I shall then, in order to appease whomever you folks are, flex my descriptive powers and show you, through words, how magnificent my eternal bracelet is.
It's on my right arm. I wanted it on my left arm, but the tattoo artist made it match the tattoo on my right bicep. My art, much like my body, has got to flow, ya dig? So, we stuck it on my right arm. There are two parallel lines. These lines are the main body of the tattoo. Each line consists of several interwoven lines that closely resemble the rose vines on my bicep. In between the parallel lines is that quote from Ecclesiasticus. It reads, Son, observe the time, and fly from evil. . The inscription is made using a font called Abaddon. At the crux of the parallel lines, which is on the pasty-ass side of my wrist, is a watch fob face. It's the face of a pocket watch my grandfather gave me. The face uses roman numbers and increments of one in between. The watch has no hands, because I do not like carrying time around with me. I feel, in some ways, that I become a slave to time, when I'd much rather be ignorant of its passing. Also, because I'm really fucking deep and shit, the timelessness represents the temporalness of everything.
Really, I could go on for pages about how deep my tattoo is, and not cover everything. See, I like tattoos that have meaning. None of this, "I'd like tattoo A, please. And, um, a butterfly on my right ass cheek because, um, they're so pretty and stuff." Give me something that I'm pretty sure is unique, and I'm happy.
---------
So, R. showed me Wikipedia. Actually, that's not completely true. I've seen Wikipedia, and have actually used it a few times. I didn't think much of it. Wikipedia was like the girl at a party that gets used, tossed aside, and then happily burbles her way to the next boy/fuckthing/user. Once in awhile, when the beer-haze lifts and the girl you're currently dancing with rears her blemished face, you turn in disgust and see the Wikipedia-girl, and hey, she isn't so bad looking.
Yeah, R. made me look closely at Wikipedia. I'm ashamed that I didn't look it over closely before. The thing is a fucking gold mine of information. I was reading an article, and it made reference to a webcomic called Mac Hall, which I enjoy every so often. Wikipedia was kind enough to link to a page that contained a fucking encyclopedia entry about Mac Hall. The entry contained information about the comic, it's start date, the artists, the style used, and other relevant information. A fucking webcomic had a page in this encyclopedia. Shit. I can't even begin to explain the amount of information Wikipedia has in its archives. We're talking about a cultural weapon. Wikipedia has the power to revolutionize the exchange of information as we know it. And, you know what, it'll get bigger, because it relies on entries submitted by people.
I told R. that my plans to take over the world had to be ceased. Wikipedia would whip me like the republicans beating on a democrat in the House.
There are some problems with Wikipedia, though. I'm not sure if there's a fact checking organization. I'm sure there are some people, who take it upon themselves to check all the information going through Wikipedia, but there's so much information, and there's no money involved. How long before a small group of individuals dedicated to sharing information are overthrown and overwhelmed by a bunch of bored twelve-year-olds whose greatest thrills in life come from accidentally stumbling over their Dad's porno-stash?
I worry for it.
I do like tattoos. They're the only permanent investment anyone can make. Nothing else will last you until you die. All things that are, for some reason, have a tendency to disappear. If I get married, there's a fifty percent chance I'll get a divorce. That doesn't exactly convince me that marriage is such a wise investment. Toys get lost. Bonds can appreciate, depreciate, or fuck an unsuspecting investor in the ass. Friends can fade away, much like Neil Young. Tattoos, baby, will last you until the day you die. If you want your tattoo to go away, you've got to cut it off your skin. Now, isn't that fucking loyalty?
I received my fifth one today. It's the first tattoo outside my shirt-line, and I'm quite proud of it. I feel like gushing about how it's, like, totally, the coolest bracelet in the world, and it's like, so fucking deep and stuff.
Well, it is really deep. I would post a picture, but the camera I have now is attached to my very lovely Sidekick-2, and has the comparative visual resolution of a blind man squatting over an electron microscope. In other words, it's blurry as fuck and no one's seeing anything worth shit. I shall then, in order to appease whomever you folks are, flex my descriptive powers and show you, through words, how magnificent my eternal bracelet is.
It's on my right arm. I wanted it on my left arm, but the tattoo artist made it match the tattoo on my right bicep. My art, much like my body, has got to flow, ya dig? So, we stuck it on my right arm. There are two parallel lines. These lines are the main body of the tattoo. Each line consists of several interwoven lines that closely resemble the rose vines on my bicep. In between the parallel lines is that quote from Ecclesiasticus. It reads, Son, observe the time, and fly from evil. . The inscription is made using a font called Abaddon. At the crux of the parallel lines, which is on the pasty-ass side of my wrist, is a watch fob face. It's the face of a pocket watch my grandfather gave me. The face uses roman numbers and increments of one in between. The watch has no hands, because I do not like carrying time around with me. I feel, in some ways, that I become a slave to time, when I'd much rather be ignorant of its passing. Also, because I'm really fucking deep and shit, the timelessness represents the temporalness of everything.
Really, I could go on for pages about how deep my tattoo is, and not cover everything. See, I like tattoos that have meaning. None of this, "I'd like tattoo A, please. And, um, a butterfly on my right ass cheek because, um, they're so pretty and stuff." Give me something that I'm pretty sure is unique, and I'm happy.
---------
So, R. showed me Wikipedia. Actually, that's not completely true. I've seen Wikipedia, and have actually used it a few times. I didn't think much of it. Wikipedia was like the girl at a party that gets used, tossed aside, and then happily burbles her way to the next boy/fuckthing/user. Once in awhile, when the beer-haze lifts and the girl you're currently dancing with rears her blemished face, you turn in disgust and see the Wikipedia-girl, and hey, she isn't so bad looking.
Yeah, R. made me look closely at Wikipedia. I'm ashamed that I didn't look it over closely before. The thing is a fucking gold mine of information. I was reading an article, and it made reference to a webcomic called Mac Hall, which I enjoy every so often. Wikipedia was kind enough to link to a page that contained a fucking encyclopedia entry about Mac Hall. The entry contained information about the comic, it's start date, the artists, the style used, and other relevant information. A fucking webcomic had a page in this encyclopedia. Shit. I can't even begin to explain the amount of information Wikipedia has in its archives. We're talking about a cultural weapon. Wikipedia has the power to revolutionize the exchange of information as we know it. And, you know what, it'll get bigger, because it relies on entries submitted by people.
I told R. that my plans to take over the world had to be ceased. Wikipedia would whip me like the republicans beating on a democrat in the House.
There are some problems with Wikipedia, though. I'm not sure if there's a fact checking organization. I'm sure there are some people, who take it upon themselves to check all the information going through Wikipedia, but there's so much information, and there's no money involved. How long before a small group of individuals dedicated to sharing information are overthrown and overwhelmed by a bunch of bored twelve-year-olds whose greatest thrills in life come from accidentally stumbling over their Dad's porno-stash?
I worry for it.
posted by Jon at 10:47 PM
2 Comments:
Mick
I was just thinking about that the other day. Funny. I used to love that eye. Now I kind of make excuses for it.
"Oh, this is the eye on my back. It has a lot of meanings and such, but you can tell that it was my first tattoo. I'll touch it up some day."
Tattoo number two is on my right bicep and is essentially a line from Keats' epitaph. It reads "Writ in Water." The writing is surrounded by a rose vine design, similar to the one on my wrist. Picture a lot of swooping lines with some angular creases, and you've the right idea. Flanking the writing are two lilies (Fleur-de-lis).
Tattoo number three is on my left shoulder. It's a simple design. It's a crescent moon, but you can see the shading of a full moon. In the shading is one of Masahide's poems. I'm sure you'll recognize it.
"Barn's burnt down / Now / I can see the moon"
Tattoo number four is actually an addition to tattoo number three. It was made to add a corona effect to tattoo number two. The corona takes up much of my shoulder. Also, a line from Ginsberg's Howl was imprinted in the corona.
"Angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night."
See, I have a thing for getting writing imprinted on my body. Not too shabby, eh?
Ah, go for it!
It's kind of cool to have the ravings of a gay, beatnik-hippie fanatic imprinted on my flesh. Now, I guess I'd better put my not-so-queer shoulder to the wheel.
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