July 17, 2007
The wait is on. Any day now I should be getting my first look at the cover proofs for Ocean Raton and I am anxious to see what the talented team at iUniverse comes up with. In my mind's eye I see a rendering of a luxury high-rise on the ocean, sequenced bra, and a "For Sale" sign. We'll soon find out how good my vision is.
As I wait, I seem to have developed a fascination with the lower back tattoo, aka "tramp stamp," "ass antlers," or my personal favorite "Panama City License Plate." Specifically, I am trying to understand the motivations and inspirations behind some of the back ink I have recently spotted.
It was the "ho tag" Michelle and I spotted a couple weekends ago at Lion Country Safari that really set me to ponder this burgeoning sociological condition. By the way, vintage Florida tourist kitsch such as Lion Country Safari has been our family adventure theme this summer with other notable visits including Weeki Wachee Springs, Dinosaur World in Plant City, and Everglades Wonder Gardens in Bonita Springs. All of these venues are also excellent for "slut tag" sightings.
Anyway, it's 90 degrees out and we've got the kids playing in the sprayground area - dual purpose to cool them off and build their immune systems with the myriad of public fountain waterborne viruses running rampant at the LCS - and I spot a young mother splashing around with her toddler. What initially caught my eye were the cut-off Daisy Dukes she was wearing (fabulous if worn by a woman four sizes smaller) as well as the two-inch think rope chain she adorned her two year-old son with. All he was missing was the Flavor Flav wall clock medallion.
So I'm admiring their fashion statements when she turns to reveal her biggest statement of all. There, in three-inch tall Gothic letters hovering above the crack of her ass like a billboard above the Grand Canyon boldly stood two words: FUCK YOU.
Why? What inspires an individual to have those two words permanently emblazoned on one's body? I have a couple tattoos myself, and each has its own meaning and reason. What possibly could be hers? I'm sure the creative amongst us can come up with an entertaining assortment of possibilities - please post your thoughts to the Ocean Raton Message Board.
Aside from an ironic protest statement to the President's Council on Fitness, my theory is that a person labels themselves thusly because they're desperate for a label of any sort. In this "Girls Gone Wild" culture, identity is an aesthetic, completely superficial, lacking substance or depth. The hamster wheel is cranked up to "11" with no time for anything or anyone leaving those desperate to be seen with shock as the only means to be noticed in this senses barraged world.
It's like we're stuck in our awkward teen years for life, destined to endlessly experiment with mohawks, music and denim/plaid/combat boot wardrobe combinations. Then again, maybe we are forging a society of uber-confident individuals that are so vitally self-aware that they can make such bold personal statements as the denim-darling we spied in the wilds of Loxahatchee.
Whatever the case, it would make for a cool web site to showcase the evolution and proliferation of the lower back tat a la the Mecca of social niche analysis web sites: Mullets Galore.
It's late and I've rambled enough. I'll simply leave you with this ... judge for yourself.
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