Embarrassing Tales
A lot of times, when you see memes you'll often see subtle (or not-so-subtle) hints for the participating blogger to issue an embarrassing tale. First kiss, not getting to the bathroom in time, etc. Usually you can get by with a sentence or two, and then you skate.
Then there are those bloggers who for some reason, seem to spin off embarrassing personal information as if it proved therapeutically cleansing to the soul.
OK.
Badge and Poppy know the story (I've hinted about it before) of my tattoo. Hell, Poppy's SEEN the tattoo. I'll tell ya how it came to be, since several people in my corner of the blogosphere have expressed an interest in getting tattooed.
A long time ago, I dated a girl who lived in "Nawlins." I was VERY young--I skipped a grade, remember?--and I was deeply in love, because being young I didn't know how much of an idiot I was being.
Anyway.
I visited her family during the weekend before Mardi Gras. The whole town was going nuts and, in those days, the drinking age was 18. My then-GF was out with her friends and I had some friends from HS who attended Tulane & Loyola, and we met up to do the French Quarter thing. Well, meandering the streets, I saw vendors selling "151 Hurricanes" for the princely sum of $1. I had to try those, since Pat O'Brien's were $3 and far less potent. Jump ahead three hours and I was, frankly, luggage.
I wanted to surprise my then-GF by getting a tattoo over my heart with her name. I sallied forth with a purpose (or the closest thing to sallying I could muster when my ligaments had turned to one of the lesser Wham-O products) and after an embarrassing misreading of directions whereby I accidentally went into a leather bar* and couldn't find how to exit same for what seemed like an hour, I found the place.
My friends helped me select a drawing, select a "font" for the name, colors, etc.
I sat down in what seemed like a cross between a barber's chair and something rejected by the ObGyn Guild. I opened my shirt, pleased as all Hell with myself and my manly sense. The tattoo guy starts the thing up and then makes contact.
OMG.
The pain.
I thought I was passing a spinning sea urchin on fire. I think I saw Jesus, and maybe also some dead relatives. I think I told the bald, bearded obese man with all the ink and the sleeveless denim jacket that his mother had never married his father and suggested that he frequently enjoyed some seriously immoral--to say nothing of physically impossible--activities. I ran out shirt flapping (back into that bar where it was nothing but Hell's Angels and Cowboy impersonators) screaming and, I believe, weeping drunkenly. To this day, I have a blue dot on my chest to remind me not to drink so damned much.
-J.
* I can't swear it was a leather bar, but it definitely was vinyl-ish. You know these guys just LOVED seeing a preppy 19 y.o. with a madras shirt and khaki chinos.
Then there are those bloggers who for some reason, seem to spin off embarrassing personal information as if it proved therapeutically cleansing to the soul.
OK.
Badge and Poppy know the story (I've hinted about it before) of my tattoo. Hell, Poppy's SEEN the tattoo. I'll tell ya how it came to be, since several people in my corner of the blogosphere have expressed an interest in getting tattooed.
A long time ago, I dated a girl who lived in "Nawlins." I was VERY young--I skipped a grade, remember?--and I was deeply in love, because being young I didn't know how much of an idiot I was being.
Anyway.
I visited her family during the weekend before Mardi Gras. The whole town was going nuts and, in those days, the drinking age was 18. My then-GF was out with her friends and I had some friends from HS who attended Tulane & Loyola, and we met up to do the French Quarter thing. Well, meandering the streets, I saw vendors selling "151 Hurricanes" for the princely sum of $1. I had to try those, since Pat O'Brien's were $3 and far less potent. Jump ahead three hours and I was, frankly, luggage.
I wanted to surprise my then-GF by getting a tattoo over my heart with her name. I sallied forth with a purpose (or the closest thing to sallying I could muster when my ligaments had turned to one of the lesser Wham-O products) and after an embarrassing misreading of directions whereby I accidentally went into a leather bar* and couldn't find how to exit same for what seemed like an hour, I found the place.
My friends helped me select a drawing, select a "font" for the name, colors, etc.
I sat down in what seemed like a cross between a barber's chair and something rejected by the ObGyn Guild. I opened my shirt, pleased as all Hell with myself and my manly sense. The tattoo guy starts the thing up and then makes contact.
OMG.
The pain.
I thought I was passing a spinning sea urchin on fire. I think I saw Jesus, and maybe also some dead relatives. I think I told the bald, bearded obese man with all the ink and the sleeveless denim jacket that his mother had never married his father and suggested that he frequently enjoyed some seriously immoral--to say nothing of physically impossible--activities. I ran out shirt flapping (back into that bar where it was nothing but Hell's Angels and Cowboy impersonators) screaming and, I believe, weeping drunkenly. To this day, I have a blue dot on my chest to remind me not to drink so damned much.
-J.
* I can't swear it was a leather bar, but it definitely was vinyl-ish. You know these guys just LOVED seeing a preppy 19 y.o. with a madras shirt and khaki chinos.
Comments
Like that.
-J.
I cannot swear to the fact it was a leather bar. All I remember was that it reminded me of a Village People Impersonators Convention.
-J.
HOW did I miss this story?