Marked for life! Yes, more and more folks are marked for life…on purpose. According to a story on FirstNews, Thursday morning, nearly half of all people in their 20s have a tattoo! The crux of the story had to do with softening attitudes toward tattoos and piercings on the part of corporate America. I don’t know why I use the word “crux.” It looks misspelled and makes me nervous. Of course, the origin of the word goes back to the 1600s and originally had to do with a structure used for torture, torment and public execution. No wonder I get edgy when I see that word. So, let me put that sentence, four sentences ago, a different way: The pivotal point of the story had to do with softening attitudes toward tattoos and piercings on the part of corporate America. There, that feels better.
When I was growing up, the only folks in town with tattoos were war veterans…usually World War II sailors. As for seeing anything pierced, well, even most women didn’t have pierced ears. They wore those clip-on ear-rings for special occasions like church or the Friday Night Fish Fry. There was, to my knowledge, only one man in town with both a tattoo and pierced ear. His name was Mr. Kellicut.
Mrs. Kellicut was a secretary. Mr. Kellicut was a full-time police officer and part-time photographer. They were a very cool couple. To my knowledge they didn’t have kids. They had a couple of little dogs. They lived in an apartment! No kids!? An apartment!? For a cheesehead punk, like me, those things reeked of sophistication! Mr. Kellicut struck me as a mysterious guy. In my memory, he was a tall, strong man with tinted glasses, crew-cut and, most out-of-the-ordinary, a tattoo and single ear-ring.
One day, my mom decided she wanted to get a professional looking picture taken of her favorite son. Unfortunately, my brother Mark wasn’t home. Craig and Randy were gone, too, so she ended up having to take me. I wore a new brown and orange pull-over shirt…something Bobby Brady would have had folded neatly by Alice and placed in his chest of drawers. That phrase always makes me think of a guy wearing a shirt made of underwear. “Oh, honey, look at that man’s chest of drawers…how nice.” I probably could have said “dresser” or “bureau.” If I wanted to be snooty, I could have said “chiffonier” but nobody I knew actually wore chiffon. We’d spread it on our toast, sometimes. Actually, we used Borden’s butter. I always wanted to buy Chiffon just to see if I really could fool Mother Nature. Of course, over the years of trying to tell people about the weather, Mother Nature has more than made up for anything I may have tried in my misguided youth. Along the same lines, don’t be surprised if you see me in the dairy section of your grocery store talking to the Parkay tubs. I’ve been asked not to return to a number of our area’s finer markets. Enough of this margarinally related topic. Meanwhile, back at the real subject:
In my orange and brown shirt, with a fresh hair-cut, I accompanied my mother to the Kellicut’s. Their apartment actually had a basement area which is where Mr. Kellicut took the photographs. I come across these pictures every now and then. My mom, who was in a couple of the shots, looks like a movie star. I look like a near-sighted platypus. Perhaps part of the reason for the bizarre look on my face, in the pictures, is that I was trying to figure out what was in Mr. Kellicut’s ear lobe. (I have no excuse or reason for the bizarre looks on my face in just about every other circumstance.)
Finally, I just asked him why he had a little thing stuck in his ear. It turns out that he had it done in honor of those he served with in the Korean War. His tattoo was war-related, as well. If my recollection is correct, Mr. Kellicut was one of the few from his unit who made it home. It was, and still is, one of the best reasons I can think of for such physical accouterments.
To be honest, not a phrase that comes easily to a weatherman, I’ve never given one serious moment’s thought to getting a tattoo or having anything punctured, in the name of fashion or sentiment or rebellion. You’ve seen my tattered suits so you know fashion is not an issue in my life. Sentiment? I’m a German-Scandinavian from Wisconsin, so, even if I feel sentimental about something I fight it with a dose of black coffee and cheesecurds. And, I’m just not a rabble rouser. Even if I did decide to flaunt convention and get some body art, I’m pretty sure KMBC would just add that to my personal file and, eventually, use all that stuff to void my contract. Then, I’d be a rebel without a clause.
That’s all I’ve got. What? The title of this Inter-note has nothing to do with the subject matter, you say? Actually, it is very pertinent. Think Fantasy Island. Herve Villachaize. The opening sequence of the show. Ahhh. Now, it makes sense.
