"Don't know the reason; I stayed here all season,
And all I got is this brand new tattoo.
But it's a real beauty, a Mexican cutie,
And how it got there I haven't a clue."
Like the singer Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville tramp stamp, that's what tattoos used to be: results of drunken escapades about which people were properly sheepish later in life.
But that has all changed. Everyone from high school students to moms now seem eager to capriciously cover every body part with eternal inky images. People making minimum wage save up for them.
Unlike Jimmy Buffet's inebriated inking, tattoos are actually shopped for and given as birthday gifts. Moms and daughters get matching marks.
But whether a tattoo is huge and scary, a bit of cursive forearm prose or just a little, red rose, the inevitable background story leaves one wondering whether emblazoning it on one's arm was wise.
To an old guy like me, it all seems a bit shortsighted. ("You'll love that tattoo when you're sixty")
But we the un-inked have too many tattooed friends and family to cast aspersions, so I'll avoid further indicting this craze that's more puzzling to me than a five-star Sudoku.
Always cutting edge, I'm still pondering my first tattoo. Despite what my colleague muses, it won't be a political inking because progressive politics change, unlike regressive politics.
I suspect my right-wing friend will never regret the tattoos I would choose for him: "Trickle down with Reagan" on his shoulder, "Let 'em eat cake" on a forearm and "Let's give all the money to rich guys" inscribed gluteally under his wallet, where he keeps his Fraser Institute membership card.
To be fair, I suppose our love affair with tattoos does offer entrepreneurial opportunity. The inventor of a K-tel-like home tattoo removal system would make millions from a few infomercials.
And how about in utero tattooing? A bit of a niche market, but it would offer our children a pre-natal opportunity to make their own eternal epidermal statements.
Because, what the heck, there seems to be no end to what people are willing to run out and have permanently inked on themselves.
Sorry, I guess I'm hopeless, but when it comes to tattoos, Jimmy Buffet's musical excuse still seems the only convincing explanation I've heard.
