Ink

Kopp Disclosure

(John 3:19-21)

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    Though I'm too fickle and too much of a weenie not to mention Leviticus 19:28 out of context to get a tattoo, I like to ask inked about theirs.

    Parenthetically, it's more hip to talk about ink than tattoos - something too many geezers like me don't do/get because we still haven't learned anything from Steppenwolf: "We don't know how to mind our own business 'cause the whole world's gotta be just like us."

    Monstrous.

    Anyway, it's always interesting to inquire; like on Tuesday at Starbucks when I, uh, inquired.

    Parenthetically (2), lest you think I'm one of those geezers who haven't learned anything from Steppenwolf, I've learned inked like to talk about it/them.

    So I asked about a star on a wrist: "My best friend and I got 'em so we'd always be close no matter where we are."

    Then there was the smiley face: "I was drunk."

    When I asked if the young woman understood the symbolism of the peace sign on her right shoulder, she giggled, "I really didn't know what it meant when I got it; but it's kinda nice...Here, let me show you."  Then she rolled up her jeans which appeared to be a third layer of skin and revealed a constellation for which she had no explanation other than impulse.

    Of course, nothing tops that lady in WalMart in the aisle where they keep Metamucil.  She was wearing a rather revealing, uh, top; and I couldn't resist looking where my dad told me to never look though she must want guys/gals to look because only half of, uh, it was showing.  With no respect to whomever was catching it on tape like WalMart, NSA, or Holder, I inquired; and she offered, "Here let me show you..."

    Martha Young comes to mind.

    She was the first African-American elder of a very fabulously-well-to-do church in the triad of North Carolina who said to me shortly after ordination/installation: "You're gonna get into trouble for doing the right thing; but always remember this: 'You love 'em and let God judge 'em.'"

    That has stayed with me for about a quarter of a century; and it's really helped when people...

    It's inked on my soul...

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    Except, I think, when drunk, ink is individualistic - depicting something "special" to the inked like a symbol, picture, name, or significant date.

    With everything we're learning from Snowden and about the NSA, IRS, and increasing number of control freaks in D.C. not to mention ecclesiastical bigotries aka bureaucracies, ink may be among the last still-legal expressions of liberty in America.

    Or as the fellow with enough ink to pose as a Mother's Day floral display said when I asked why, "Because I can.  Nobody can tell me what to do with my body."

    Hmm.

    Gotta think about that some more.

    Buuuuuuut, for the most part, I wanna agree with decreasing respect for the control freaks in...

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    Again, I don't like pain of any kind.

    Whenever I fill out one of those medical forms that asks about allergies, I print one word in big bold letters: PAIN.

    Because I haven't been drunk or stoned since New Year's Eve of my freshman year in college, I'll probably never be anesthetized enough to get one; though I've often flirted with...

    I can't imagine how ink artists handle changing names of whoever's the best beau/mademoiselle of the moment; or as one tatted tart said to me, "If I inked all of the names of all of my loves through life on my body, I'd have started at the armpit and be down to my bum by now."

    Parenthetically (3), it's like nose rings.  What happens if you've got a booger in...?

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    Well, apart from Martha's continuing counsel, that's not what this is all about.

    It's about ink being indicative but not necessarily conclusive.

    Simply, don't be fooled by what's on the outside.

    Look deeper.

    It's like churches.

    I've seen lots of funky lookin' folks who love Jesus a lot more than those who dress the part.

    Oops.

    I haven't been able to get away from Matthew 23 since...

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Blessings and Love!