Just like a tattoo, I'll always have you

I don't get tattoos.

According to the Pew Research Center, 36 percent of Americans between the ages of 18 and 25 have one or more.

Twenty nine percent of inked people say tattoos make them feel more rebellious.

Thirty one percent say they feel sexier and - this speaks volumes about our educational system - five percent claim their tattoos make them feel more intelligent.

When I was growing up in Auxvasse, Mo., the only tattoos I ever saw were the ones on the carnies who showed up every July to install the tilt-a-whirl at the county fair.

Nowadays, thanks to celebrities like soccer star David Beckham, the entire NFL, singer Pink and actress Angelina Jolie, everyone seems to have them.

On NBC's The Voice, a show in which amateur vocalists compete for a recording contract, all four celebrity coaches - Adam Levine, Cee Lo Green, Blake Shelton and Christina Aguilera - sport tattoos. So do many of the contestants.

Most of the members of the gym I belong to (notice I said "belong to" as opposed to "go to" regularly) are young professionals. I see them walking in wearing suits. Moments later they emerge from locker rooms in skimpy outfits revealing body art that, a generation ago, would have enabled them to earn livings as sideshow attractions.

Some claim their tattoos are expressions of their individuality or reminders of special persons or events. Beckham and Jolie, for instance, have the names and birth dates of their children engraved on their backs.

Seems to me it would be easier, cheaper and less painful to write them down on a calendar. If you're so stupid you can't remember your childrens' birthdays, perhaps you shouldn't be having so many in the first place.

Tattoos might conceivably make sense for people my age who want to deflect attention from their crows' feet, bald heads and flab. "Gee, that tattoo is so fascinating I almost forgot you're old, ugly and fat."

But I can't understand why anyone with an otherwise presentable body - a body that still responds to sit ups and Nautilus machines - would want one.

It's disturbing to contemplate what these tattoos are going to look like in 50 years, once the firm young flesh to which they were applied becomes wrinkled, translucent and saggy.

Can your imagine your grandma with tattoos? Me neither. But millions of kids from future generations won't have to imagine. They'll see granny's Popeye-like tattooed forearms every Thanksgiving as she serves up the turkey. It's enough to make Norman Rockwell weep.

And by then - you read it here first - tattoos will be as passe as the Chevy Volt.

Some of my best friends' children have tattoos. These are good kids. Highly educated kids. Accomplished kids who make the world a better place.

I just happen to believe they'll have buyer's remorse someday.

Since they were little, I've told my sons that they can murder someone and I'll still love them but that, if either gets a tattoo, he's out of the will. So far, so good. No tattoos. At least none that I can see.

My granddog, Topanga, has one, but it was inscribed on her belly for identification purposes at the Humane Society from whence she was adopted.

Sadly, many of the people who spend the most on tattoos would be better off spending their limited funds on necessities like food, shelter and Powerball tickets.

Several years ago I hired an agency to provide a series of home health aides for my mother, who had been in the hospital.

The agency representative warned that we might be shocked by the first attendant's appearance. "Charity is only 30 but she doesn't have any teeth," she told us.

"You're sending a meth head to help my mother?" I asked.

"No," the representative said. "Charity wasn't raised by a family that encouraged her to brush or floss. She's had a hard life."

That night, I saw in the newspaper an ad from a dentist, advertising a complete set of dentures for $299.

"Wow," I thought. "Charity must really be poor if she can't come up with $299."

When Charity arrived the next morning, my mother was asleep so I invited her to sit down in front of the TV.

She opened her purse, removed a bottle of baby oil, dabbed the oil onto a cotton ball, then rolled up her pant leg, revealing a brightly colored parrot tattoo from her ankle to her knee.

"I just got this yesterday," she announced. "I'm supposed to keep it moist."

"Do you mind if I ask how much that cost?" I asked.

"Three hundred dollars," she replied proudly.

I rest my case.



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