As you may or may not be aware, I do a weekly blog for the website Book of Odds. Below is this week’s offering
So, are you gonna get a tattoo for your daughter?
I’ve paid somewhere in the neighborhood of $800 to be written on permanently. I’ve spent what would be the equivalent of a day’s work sitting in various artists’ chairs, smelling that antiseptic aroma you should always smell when getting inked up, listening to the drone of a needle as it etched things I wanted to keep sacred on my skin. I’ve done this to pay homage and now, for the first time, I just feel sort of done with it. You’d think the birth of my first child would be a tattoo no-brainer—especially considering I’m seven deep already—but it’s not.
I always said that I would stop getting tattoos when I had found whatever it is I was looking for. Of the seven I have, more than a few can be attributed to the need to pick myself up out of some mood or other. I like tattoos regardless of mood, but can say honestly that the intent of some of these scrawlings probably falls somewhere in the vicinity of self-mutilation.
I’m loath to say I regret getting any of the tattoos I have; partially because that would be an admission of the knuckleheadery of youth and partly because it’s just not true. I like my tattoos. I’m less thrilled with their placement. Tattoos I can see at any given moment tickle me much less than they used to. When I wanted to make certain kinds of pronouncements to myself and others, they were perfect. But now that the nature of pronouncement has changed, now that I’ve gotten a bit more circumspect with what I offer to the world in the way of personal presentation, a few tattoos just seem out of place. When I reach or stretch or type, I notice my left forearm; I see the appendage of a dude I’m not quite in sync with anymore. Even worse, there are times when I look at other similarly-tattooed people and wonder: What the hell were we thinking?
To give some credence to the knucklehead trope, I can say my theory was half right: Having landed on the path I’m on, I don’t necessarily feel compelled to hit the parlor as I once did. What I didn’t know then is that the person who no longer feels compelled to add to this array would be less-than-pumped about the collection of art on his left forearm.
I’m just a different cat now. I have a few moments where, admittedly, I feel cool and dig my work—don’t let anyone lie to you: the “cool” factor is a lot of the appeal—but increasingly, I feel like the dude holding some other dude’s tattoos until that other guy gets back. Whatever my headspace was previously, my current state of mind doesn’t lend itself to visible tattoos. My shoulders and upper arms? Cool. But as I’ve begun to frown upon opportunities for people who don’t know me like that to know me like that, I’ve begun mulling what to do.
All things considered, the decision seems to fall between three absurd options…
INT. – NIGHT – THE BEDROOM
Jon is awakened by The Feath’s stirring. He knows the drill: she needs to pee. As a reflex, Jon knows to tuck in his legs so she’ll be able to lumber over him without much incident. Jon doesn’t dare try to fall back to sleep until The Feath returns. As she doesn’t care to turn on the lights on bathroom excursions in the middle of the night, Jon pays particular attention when The Feath re-enters the room, just in case he needs to swoop into action. The Feath makes it back to the bed without incident. As she settles in, she speaks…
The Feath: I was having a weird dream before I got up.
Jon: Oh yeah?
The Feath: Yeah. We were in the delivery room and like, the baby was getting ready to come out, but you wouldn’t let me push until you put some music on.
The Feath: Yeah, man. You wouldn’t let me push until you put “Livin’ On a Prayer” on.
Jon: …That’s weird.
The Feath: (Shrugging, rolling over) Yale.
I told you it was only a matter of time before the buddy cop movie starring myself and Kriss from Insanity Report surfaced. This is Part I.
INT. – NIGHT
Detectives Pitts-Wiley and Kriss pore over case files. The humidity in the room is stifling, but they continue to rifle through dossiers, newspaper clippings and photos. Both look as though they haven’t slept much in the last few days. Ties loosened, they dangle about the necks as though the gallows call. Perhaps it does. This case isn’t like that others. There’s a wrinkle they know they’re missing. But both Kriss and Pitts-Wiley are determined. They know the Tiger Woods press conference is a career bust and they can’t let it slip through their fingers. Suddenly Kriss slams down a folder. He’s fed up. Read the rest of this entry »
Above we see The Franchise, aka The First of the Mohicans, poppin’ off at the mouth, proving the child is indeed mine.
In recent weeks, The Feath and I have taken to calling the kid Juice or Juicy Fruit, not merely because I’m like Diddy with these monikers, but also because home skillet starts gettin’ buck every time The Feath drinks juice.
But what kind of skillet is Juice? A he or a she?
Let’s allow Prince Rogers Nelson to croon a bit
Could you be
The most beautiful girl in the world?
Plain to see
You’re the reason that God made a girl
So, there you have it.
And, in honor of my unborn child, a song which she will be convinced is a nursery rhyme until she becomes the wiser and feels mildly ashamed of her father.
In light of the possibility of a John Edwards sex tape, this post from June ’07 seemed appropriate.
So, one of the more odd things about yours truly is my peculiar interest in and ability to retain information pertaining to pop culture. Perhaps it’s a sad commentary on society in the post-modern era (whatever the fuck that means), but I would feel infinitely more confident entering a pop culture show than I would a history one. It’s not to say I can’t fucks with some Jeopardy!, but it is to say I remember a lot of worthless information.
What’s particularly weird is, though I semi-actively seek to stay hip to the game, unless a pop topic is brought up, I don’t really discuss it with other people. More often than not, it is unlikely I’ll open up a conversation with, “Did you see what so and so was wearing at the Emmy Awards?”, but I’ll absolutely know what so and so was wearing. I just generally keep the information to myself. Is it out of shame? I don’t think so. I suppose it’s just one of those quirks about your boy.
Anyway, I was perusing one of my favorite website, thesuperficial.com, and the most recent post on the site was devoted to pictures of Kim Kardashian living her life. To bring up to speed those of you who have better things to do with your lives than know who she is, Kardashian is the daughter of Robert–one of the lawyers who proved O.J. was innocent, friend to Paris Hilton (though I’m not sure they’re peoples anymore) and the vagina of Ray J’s sex tape. In these pictures on the website, Kardashian’s booty looks other-worldly. Literally, it just looks so good that it’s not to be believed. Now I don’t know how half-Armenians get down, but this was just absurd. I needed a consultation.
Talking to my home girl Ms. Thomas-Littleton, I sent the link to her for her perusal. I tend to believe girls have a better eye for certain things than dudes, mainly because the straight ones don’t want to have sex with what they’re looking at. Upon inspection, MTL thought her ass was a cosmetic fakery, noting that the thigh to butt ratio just didn’t add up.
I’m no one’s doctor, so I can’t really tell you if you can fake a donkey butt. What I do know is happening across these photos piqued my curiosity about her sex tape with Raymond Norwood (which is something of a porny name when you think about it), brother of Brandy. After searching the world wide web for a bit (Sidebar 1: Sometimes, the internet is utterly unhelpful) I discovered the tape in full. Eager to see what the sex tape gods had wrought, I clicked on the link. My date with destiny had begun. Read the rest of this entry »
INT. – NIGHT– THE BEDROOM
Jon is seated on the bed, plugging in his cellular phone. The Feath enters the room, freshly showered. She has a look of mild astonishment on her face as she feels her belly, a belly that contains the ever-growing Franchise.
THE FEATH: Dude, I can’t see my vagina anymore.
Jon ponders this a moment. He beckons The Feath over, smiles and rubs her belly thoughtfully.
JON: Well…it is kind of kind of in a cave now.
Twitterin’ (heeey) sing-le
Oooh, In a 1-0 kind of world
I’m glad I’ve got Twit-ter!
Confession: My Twitter feed is fairly one-note. There’s a spectrum certainly, but even that spectrum falls under the category of “Stuff I’ll tolerate reading 140-characters at a time.” Thus, I don’t have too many people who are, in my opinion, batshit crazy and perpetually insufferable. I once referred to Twitter as the college dining hall for grown-ups and that still applies. The people whom I follow are people who I would sit at a table and shoot the shit with. Read the rest of this entry »