Attack of the killer tattoos

Now I know I’m going to piss off most of my friends. But I’m just worried. There is an epidemic in our country, but no one says a word about it. Neither the doctors nor the politicians. Neither the Karens nor the Kevins. It is a silent disease. Well, not too quietly. There’s the hum of the gun repeatedly stabbing your skin. Oh, and the “cha-ching” of the cash register. You’re not “cha-ching” anymore, are you?

I’m 44. And as a child, I don’t remember ever seeing tattoos on people. The first tattoo I ever saw was of the animated GI JOE character called Shipwreck. He had, which is very popular today, an anchor on his forearm. And back then, only a few WWE wrestlers had tattoos. Here you can trace the disease of tattooing by observing the undertaker’s arms over the years.

Now animated sailors and real-life animated wrestling characters seem to be eligible when it comes to getting tattooed. But then the NBA began to feel the effects of this emerging disruption. And I mean disorder in the mental health sense. Call me Judge McJudgerson. It looked like tattooing had become mandatory on the basketball courts. Boys were covered in it. It looks like this started around the turn of the century. I believe Allen Iverson was patient zero.

The infection grew. And made it to our police stations. In the past, it was mustaches that every fellow officer had to acquire in order to consolidate his identity. But now, instead of mustaches, they wear full sleeves of tattoos as police officers. I wonder if it’s some kind of intimidation technique. Maybe the bad guys will cringe when they see colorful kofish and random tribal patterns on the cop arresting them. The millennium brought an influx of military personnel into our police force. Maybe one hand tattoos the other.

So how the hell did tattooing reach the heartland of our country? I wonder if it has something to do with a little reality show about a group of tattoo artists called Miami Ink. It ran around 2005. I loved that show. There was always a deeper meaning behind the tattoos that normal people got. Normal people. I’ll come to them soon. But then I saw older people getting hearts with names, dates, or faces of their loved ones. I’m talking about grandmothers who register for the death of family members.

Sure, maybe I’m a dinosaur. A Travis Saurus Rex. My small brain and arms cannot comprehend the higher concepts involved in tattooing. So let me pause for a moment. No, wait, I lied. OK. When did college-educated yoga teachers in the suburbs feel the need to buy half sleeves? One hundred percent you’re thinking about a white girl. Seriously. Normal normal people have become infected with a disease that society considers normal. Like plastic surgery. But I digress…

The medical community describes people who get multiple or large tattoos as the most anxious people. I understand that some tattoos are used to cover up scarred memories of abuse. Literally covering up the scars. I can understand that. And believe me, I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying. I remember seeing Anthony Kiedis’ back tattoo of a hawk or thunderbird in her 1991 music video for Give It Away. And I couldn’t understand why anyone would do that to themselves. It looked really cool. But then, not long ago, I saw that Ben Affleck had a huge back tattoo. No offense, as soon as old Benny dipped his toes in the pool of ink, the back tattoo should have retired.

I’ve watched friends of mine put the ink on their bodies, but much later in life. My friend Javier, who is two years older than me, has a full Harry Potter tattoo on his forearm. My friend Rick, about ten years older than me, has this creepy skull hawkmoth from Silence of the Lambs breathing down his neck. Yes, he is running out of “parking spaces”. I will out my friends, but not my family members. I have to see her this Thanksgiving.

Today, 33% of adults have at least one tattoo. 22% have more than one. I guarantee you that these numbers are modest. None of my family or friends have been asked about their tattoos in a survey. The WWE, NBA and NFL look like they’re spending their nights off in the ink chair. Both Wall Street and Main Street are rolling up their professional sleeves and showing off their bright colors. And anyone who falls into the “this never happened before” category may have fallen victim to trend chasing or something more insidious.

Getting a tattoo used to be rebellious. Now it’s rebellious not to. It used to make you unique or badass. Heck, the Romans used tattoos to mark their criminals. Now a sweet girl named Sarah who works at Bank of America has one. It used to be the people who robbed banks that owned them. Now it’s their bank tellers. It used to be the people in the prisons, now it’s the prison guards. It used to be tough guys on motorcycles with tattoos of “Mama” in the heart on their arms, and now it’s happy delivery men on bikes with long sleeves.

Don’t shoot the messenger. I call her like I see her. I see more ink than skin. And to the most unlikely people. I’m an armchair scientist watching a virus slowly spread from the fringes of society into every aspect of modern life. You know, I wanted to get a tattoo once. A raven in flight, with one wing over my arm and the other over my back. Then one day I woke up and the craving was gone. I felt vaccinated. First of all, it would have been damn expensive. Secondly, I was a total bastard anyway. And three, I’m a grown man, damn it. Why the hell do I want a bird to hug half my body?!