I am, in the words of the great poet, Barney, 'super-dee-duper' excited.
For those who don't know, or even more broadly, for those who care, I've had a tattoo for 22 years.
(Flash back sequence) It's a warm September day. I've only recently returned from Europe. My mom, her paramour, myself, and my brother, are sitting in the beautifully landscaped backyard, sipping something tasty. I am pontificating on Europe, and in particular, Parisians. I remark how they love to smoke, wear cowboy boots, and get tattoos. As the discussion heats up, as it always does in my family, I make the flippant statement that I'd get a tattoo. Keith, the said paramour a la mother, say, "No you wouldn't."
Well, I'll spare you the yes-I-would-no-you-wouldn't conversation. I do what I am so often inclined to do when challenged--exactly what I want to do, or exactly the opposite of what someone else wants me to do. In this case, I go in the house, grab the yellow pages, and start phoning tattoo parlours. Well, it being the 80's (and tattoos being rather more counter-culture than not) the only place I could find open was a biker place on 97 Street in Edmonton (think ghetto).
I make an immediate appointment. Well, being a rather anti-establishment bunch, my mom and older brother decide to come along and tag themselves as well.
To make a long story even longer, we got our tattoos, went home, and gloated. Now I've never regretted it. But what I loved 20 years ago has grown a little old (but then so have I, I suppose). So I am having it covered. I've been talking about it for years, but it wasn't until recently, when I mentioned it to a beautiful and talented artist friend (I don't want to name names, but her initials are Carrie) offered to come up with some ideas.
She hit the tattoo on the head! So here it is (incidentally it is not fully coloured yet, but spectacular none the less):
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