Tattoos are no longer the mark of the social outcast - the biker, the convict, the sideshow freak.  No.  Now tattoos are for everyone.  Imagine the ranks of generation x and y-ers 30 or 40 years from now: cloned and artificial organs pulse beneath livid scars that bisect wrinkled, sagging, faded tattoos that are barely more than a stain.  Young whippersnappers wipe tattooed ass after tattooed ass in the old folks’ home, mistaking long-blurred ink for something that merits a serious sponge bath.

This proliferation of tattooing has spawned a culture of its own, which by turn has begotten a media circus that has infused the mainstream with magazines and television shows.  These television shows are the most insidious.  They appear to have given boorishly bland people - those who used to have the sense to be a little unsettled by tattoos and the people who had them - the idea that the point of being tattooed is to tell personal stories to complete strangers who ask stupid questions. 

If you haven’t seen these shows, here’s the format:  The ultra-hip tattooists hang around shooting the shit and waxing profound about people reclaiming their bodies for themselves and blowing sunshine up each other’s asses about how much they improve the lives of the people they tattoo and what a spiritual journey tattooing is.  In between these self-indulgent interludes, people who have been struck by tragedy queue up for their chance to reveal personal information about their lives to a stranger who will be jabbing them with needles on national television.  When the tattoo is finished, the newly tattooed person gushes about how much they love their new piece and re-caps the personal tragedy that brought them to the tattoo shop.  It’s Oprah for those who think that permanently altering their skin will lessen their personal pain.

The effect these programs have in the real world on the already tattooed can not be overstated.  If the tattooed person is reading in the park, having an intimate conversation in a coffee shop, counting out change at the grocery counter, it makes no difference.  The tattooed person is an object of curiosity who will be party to a plethora of questions that range from the inane, “Did that hurt?” to the antisocially intimate, “Where else do you have tattoos?” and be privy to a cascade of psychobabble and personal information from those considering being tattooed themselves.  Yes, even among the ranks of the non-tattooed, there appears to be an abundance of tattoo planning that, in reality, is an entree into impromptu peer therapy sessions that can be conducted any place a tattooed person can be found.

“You know, I want to get a tattoo,” this from the the skinny guy in the wolf t-shirt with a greasy brown mullet and miniscule hairs at varying lengths jutting from his acne dotted chin.  “I wanna get it right here,” he lisps, taking this opportunity to expose a belly white enough to belong to a phosphorescent, deep sea creature as he gestures to a spot above his navel.  “My brother?  He was my twin. Identical. He died in a car wreck, but he loved Taz.”  In response to your quizzical expression he elaborates, “The Tazmanian Devil?  But I want to get it right here because when we were born he almost didn’t make it because my umbilical cord?  It was wrapped around his neck.”  His wet eyes beg for your approval beneath a Cro-Magnan forehead wrinkled in consternation.

How does one break away from such a personal revelation?  Here I thought I’d just stop in for a cup of coffee and enjoy my book, but now it appears I’m expected to respond to this lost soul.  To say what one really thinks would be simply cruel.  “Well, now there’s one less of you,” simply won’t do.  “That sounds perfect,” you say, another afternoon of blissful solitude interrupted.  Better just have the rest of this cup at home, you think to yourself as you gather your things to beat your retreat.