Listen . . . June 5, 2003 (Stew)

  
I was fascinated with tattoos today. Driving back up from Northgate I saw several tattoo shops, and I wondered how much it would cost to get one on my bicep? I think a ferocious grizzly bear would be kind of cool. But not knowing how much they cost, I had no idea if it was even a remote possibility. So of course I looked it up on the web. About $120 per hour, and small ones usually take about a half hour, so I imagine that the bear image that I’m thinking of would be about $200+ or so. No way I can justify that type of expenditure.

Then, after doing some more searching on the web, I found a list of what I would call post-op instructions relating to the care and management of a tattoo. What the hell is that about? I can’t remember to take my meds three times a day, how in the world would I remember to apply moisturizing ointment on a tattoo SIX times a day for five days?  I’ve seen people with tattoos, it seems that a lot of these people are lucky to remember to breathe, let alone care for a tat.

Ah well, I guess there goes my fantasy of running cross country on a Harley having my bear tat just waving around in the sun and wind. I don’t know why, but I’ve been looking at motorcycles with a more keen interest, too. But I have such a lousy sense of balance that I also see myself splattered all over the ground after just hopping onto a motorcycle… it wouldn’t even have to be running and I’d find away to damage myself. 

I guess, over the past week or so, I’ve felt my drawn to a lot of “macho” things. I went and purchased a new knife over the weekend, and I was just fascinated by all the different blades. I’ve decided I want to start collecting knives as a hobby. I’ve always wanted a sword – I think there’s just something mystical about the Scottish claymore – a sword that was designed to take out the legs of the oncoming horses during a battle. It didn’t have to be very sharp, just basically a big piece of metal with a handle that the typical warrior couldn’t really swing in battle. He would just grab hold of it, kneel down, and place it parallel to the ground, about knee high on a horse. When the oncoming horsemen would gallop, the horses legs would hit the claymore and the steed would go down, tossing its rider. The Scotsman would then pick up his claymore and pummel the rider with it with garish results.

I’ve also been fascinated with guns again. I don’t really want to own one, but I want to feel one in my hands. I want to fire one. I’m just craving the power that a gun gives somebody.

And cars. I’ve been reading Car and Driver recently, and have been interested in keeping up with the new trends in cars. I don’t know why. Just, again, I think I’m craving power.