I live in Portland, Oregon. (Waits for applause to die down from Portlandia viewers.) But, I live on the west side of Portland, Oregon. (Enjoys the indignant silence from same group.) That means the tattoos-to-SUVs ratio is comparatively low. Still, I get out a lot. Here’s what I’ve picked up.
The proper etiquette for ogling body signage is as follows:
You: “Nice ink.”
Human billboard: “Thanks.”
At this point, it’s important to note body language. If they track where your eyes are looking and turn to present art, you are allowed to get your zombie on and stare hard. If they roll up the sleeve or pant leg or (insert more personal article of clothing here), you have just been invited. Now, you are expected to lean in and critique their stains with no less than three appreciative adjectives. One syllable only each, if you are from east Portland.
“Sweet.”
“Cool.”
“The snake coming out the bird’s ass is profound.”
If they mention anything about self-design, brace yourself for more body reveals. There are doubtless several other sketches rendered somewhere intimate that were put out of sight for good reason, When the dude pulls off his shirt or the dudette tells you to “Go ahead and pull the collar down, it’s a big Death Butterfly,” you must be prepared for your childhood nightmares to be cut and reshot in your cerebellum. You now have new material. Heightened emotion is necessary at this point in the exchange to conceal either the bile rising in your gorge or the bulge rising in your pants.
“Sah-weeet!”
“Cool, man!”
“Does that butterfly wrap all the way around to the. .uh…you know…front?”
Closing comments often involve them thrusting the business card of the tattoo artist at you. Take it. Admire the artwork on it. Promise to check that guy out and nod a lot while you back away. Don’t allow the conversation to turn to whether or not you have any ink. Because you don’t, and when that disappointing information comes to light, you are never gonna see the rest of that Death Butterfly.
