this fall, tattoo parlors across the land will be needling removable ink into the arms of young and old men alike who find themselves temporarily intoxicated by love.
no more will be the days of tacky camouflage or painful treatments or lame flesh band-aids or lamer lies in attempts to conceal the name of a lover long lost.
soon it will be possible for those prone by cupid’s arrows to tattoo the name of their fickle fawning to do so with little fear of a sudden change in heart.
soon will be the day that arms can grace the girl of the week, if one is so inclined.
and for folks like larry king, i would suggest this promise of a new tattoo world just can't get any better.
however, i will not be one of them.
not because i am petrified of death by a thousand tattooist’s stings.
i laugh in the general direction of such thoughts.
but rather because i suspect i am allergic to the ink—a little matter that i'm sure has kept me from an invite to join the latin kings, something i've longed for many a year now.
well, maybe that but more likely because i'm what they fondly call in rural new jersey latin street gang circles, "carne de pollo blanca" (rough tranlation: meat of a white chicken), and i'm all that for sure.