Tuesday, July 9, 2013

Going Back to Philly

So I told you I had a few more photos from my trip to Philly to visit my good friend Karen. I tried to find that LL Cool J song (circa 1988) to play with the photos but after googling it I realized the song was Going Back to Cali,  not Philly; but you get the gist. 

My first authentic Philly Cheese steak, and good thing we went to the restaurant the night before because here was the line the next day.

Meanwhile as I sat eating my Philly cheesesteak, Brian took the boys to a Yankee's game in Baltimore. CC Sabathia (our favorite pitcher) was pitching.

The next day after an awesome slice of pizza and a summer pale ale, I accompanied my friend Karen to get her first tattoo.

The before and after. And wow, was she in some pain during! 

So to kill some time I wandered around the tattoo parlor and read crazy signs in their bathrooms like these (above).

I sat on the steps and journaled as I listened to conversations the fully tattooed receptionist was having with her co-workers. She commented as she was cleaning the front glass door that kid's snotty fingerprints are the most disgusting thing. As I looked around the walls with photographs of tattooed male and female genitalia, psychotic clowns and decapitated heads inked on someone's ass, I personally thought the snotty handprints were nothing. But again, that is me. Maybe I am way tougher than her, or looking at her again, probably not.

I do love a good tattoo though. I love discreet tattoos that hold significance, that tell a story about who you are, or who you once were or hope to be. But too many tattoos are like those strangers you meet at a party who tell you their whole life story before you can get a drink. You want to run away but you are stuck, half intrigued by this person and half just plain trapped, praying to be rescued by someone else so you can run to the bar and let the newbie chat it up with tattoo girl. These were random thoughts I jotted down from a tattoo parlor.

 Karen made it through and is happy with her choice. I did have to make a small remark to a guy waiting for his tat, about how this generation will be perceived by our caretakers in nursing homes with all of our skin art. He laughed and showed me a few of his tattoos (and a branding) that he wished he could take back. "The nursing home staff will get a good laugh at this," he says as he pointed to a psycho clown on his ribcage with a dagger in its head. "Awesome,"  I say as the receptionist curses again as a little boy runs his Philly cheesesteak greasy hands across the front windows. "Awesome".

Love & Light,

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