It's interesting, I think people are socially much more conservative nowadays — even ones who think of themselves as fringe — but when it comes to body art the pendulum seems to have swung to the other extreme.  And I'm loving it.

I have to admit — and no offense to anyone who has one — but I personally hated those wussy biceps bands that were all the rage among gays ten or fifteen years ago —  they weren't marks of bold individuality but badges of bald conformity, at least in my book.  They kinda reminded me of the stars of those Seussean sneetches...


I started to change my thinking on tattoos about the time I met the sizzling hot to the touch Patrick Short, who had several, all beautiful and intriguing, in lots of beautiful, intriguing places on his beautiful, intriguing body.  They seemed both willed and organic, and made his already, um, beautiful and intriguing body (did I mention his beautiful and intriguing body?) more beautiful and intriguing to me.

After that it was like they were coming out of the woodwork.  I've come to realize, where ink is concerned, I very much prefer glorious excess to fussy restraint.  I'm actually still agnostic about tattoos, but if you're going to go to the trouble, make it at least somewhat intriguing.  Not amusing.  Intriguing.  Amusement wears off, trust me, but tattoos... uh... not so much.

Did I ever tell you about the guy — name of Adam — hot, hairy, butch little fucker from Southie.  This goes back to the very beginnings of The Curse of the Red Fez, for those (if there are any of you still out there) who've been with me that long.  Anyway, I met  him at the bar at the Fez one night and got him to show me his tattoos.  Boy, was that a bad idea.  Not a deal breaker, but, well, you be the judge:

There was Bugs and Daffy on one biceps and Tweetie and Sylvester on the other. And this is not some hipstery hijinx we're talking about here — there was no irony intended.  I didn't get to see the Yosemite Sam tramp stamp until later that night, back at his place. I was like, dude.  Please tell me there are no more.  I can't cope. 

"I was young," he says.

I'm like: "no one is that young.  I mean, what were you — five?"

He said he wanted to try to cover them up or do something more artistic with them. 

"I'm evolving," he said. 

Badeeba badeeba badeeba badeebada ... that's all folks!

Bad tattoos can be a deal breaker — even if by shaking your rump you can make Yosemite Sam dance and shoot off his guns like in the cartoons — even if you spread your butt cheeks and Porky Pig pops out. 

The exception is if they look like you got 'em in prison...


...in which case, let's fuck.

But if I find out you haven't done time — or if I find any Looney Toons on you — it's over.  I'll still pay you, but it's over.