Ain't life grand? Tattoo shops on every corner, conventions every weekend, two, count 'em, two ink-themed television shows on the box, and mothers don't grab their little children and head screaming to the other side of the street when they see your tattooed arms. It's peace and tranquility time in Tattooville.

Sure, there's always a couple isolated instances of being tossed off the job at an amusement park or being summarily fired for showing ink at a stodgy corporate office in some backwater metropolis, but, for the most part, we can all unbutton the top buttons of our shirts, roll up our sleeves and go on about our business just like regular folks.

But is that a good thing? Is it really our most fervent desire to be accepted by society and never given a second glance? Have we all secretly desired that complete strangers walk up and paw our skin for a closer look? Do we really long to be 100 percent accepted by the manager at the supermarket, the teller at the bank and the pastor and his wife? Is that why you sit without moving a muscle for five long hours while a tattoo artist, whose lifestyle you'd give anything to have and who's getting $125 per hour of your hard-earned money, permanently decorates your skin with a likeness of the bulldog who chewed up your best pair of sneakers when it was a pup? All this to gain acceptance from society?

Hell no. Let's face it, we've pretty much been reduced to our Social Security numbers, our PIN codes and email passwords. We're a series of numbers, gang, and we're not going to take it anymore! That's why we get tattoos. Not to join the club, but to separate ourselves from it. With the current mood of this country-looking over our shoulders in case some government official heard something we said that might be construed as protest, having our identities stolen by some computer geek in a country we can't even pronounce, being lumped into red states, blue states and states of confusion-tattoos are one of the few ways we can proclaim who we are-separate and different from anyone else on the planet. Sure, if you knock over a liquor store, and the surveillance camera spots that six-inch-wide type on your neck spelling LETITIA, that's not so good, but for the rest of us law-abiding citizens, having something no one else has is not only cool, it's a silent protest against the insidious amalgamation of society and loss of personal freedom.

That's why indigenous people are reawakening their tattoo cultures. That's why firemen and policemen, deep-sea divers and astronauts, brain surgeons, steel workers and basketball players are declaring their freedom of spirit by making a permanent statement on their skin. Years ago, it was hair. Want to protest the status quo? Grow your hair long. The boss doesn't like it? You can always cut it off.

Not with tattoos. You don't go cutting them off. You wear them with pride, and, if the boss gives you the ultimatum, "Cover it up or hit the street," you can always save your job by rolling down your sleeves. But the moment you're outta there, walking tall on the way to your car, shopping for breakfast crunchies at the market, groovin' in a nightclub or sitting in the stands at your kid's softball game, you can proudly proclaim your individuality and let everyone you come in contact with know just who the heck you really are, and nobody (except a laser surgeon at $500 a session, with a minimum of eight sessions) can take that away from you.

Bob Baxter
Editor in Chief

baxter@skin&ink.com
www.skinandink.com