If you are even thinking about getting a tattoo, do yourself a favor and DECLINE. 

I should have gone with the chief. You know the savage one with the mohawk and tilted face, open mouthed blood curdling scream. It exemplified determination and fury. It was also the mascot of my favorite baseball team, the Milwaukee Braves. I thought it would be a nice compliment to my first “marking”, a bird.

Not any bird but the silhouetted one with the brick red coloring and oversized talons. The face was rocklike and in search of prey. It also typified my sports addiction, for the image itself was owned by the National Football League, in specific the Atlanta Falcons.

Regardless, the whole idea turned to shit when I was told my sketch of the aforementioned Indian was unacceptable. If I was smart, I would have left the parlor, I didn’t. You see, to get inked (aka tattooed, marked) there is a certain zone one must be in. The zone of the invincible, I don’t know about you but the idea of a mini sewing machine on a body part is not my idea of pleasure.

Butterflies the size of zebras were running around in my gut as I surveyed the wall of designs. There were hundreds, if not thousands of possibilities and I felt like Alice    ( in Wonderland) in the hall of mirrors There had to be a logical method to decide on a tattoo, the evil demonic ones were definitely out, as were the oriental type, hearts: too cutesy, names: very cliche, so in search of a body Feng Shui, I narrowed it too animals. Fish were out, being prone to anxiety attacks in open water, and reptiles were too prehistoric. I saw a buffalo that looked super radical but dismissed it.

 Finally, I saw a Big Cat, a tiger that looked “boss”, it was a straight on look, head perched on paws pose. The scale was right and the eyes were very penetrating, in a moment of self-indulgence, I knew that those eyes must be brushed green, as mine. The tongue, pink, mouth open and hungry, the other wordly beastly stares….

JG

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