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This weekend I went to a bikers' club to get a tattoo.
It's not as shocking -- or as dangerous -- as it sounds. It is, however, full of cliche.
It started with a text from my neice. She was planning a trip to New Orleans for her 18th birthday. Coming to see Incubus and also, could I take her to get a tattoo?
After checking with her dad (18 or not, I wasn't taking her to get a tattoo if my brother didn't know about it.), I got in touch with my tattoo guy. It was short notice but could he make my neice's 18th-birthday request happen? And...while we're at it...I'm still wanting that magnolia ink myself.
Well, the weekend is pretty busy, he tells me. He's part of a biker club of mostly war vets and they were holding a fundraiser that weekend. Raising money for the widow of a vet who was trying not to lose her house. Girl Scouts sell cookies. Bikers...do tattoos. Who knew?
A couple days later my guy calls me back and says that it doesn't look like the turnout will be overwhelming and if we really want to get inked that weekend we were welcome to come to the clubhouse around noon on Saturday? He says he's not going to charge us for the ink, we should just make a donation to the widow's cause.
These are some pretty charitable bikers, y'all.
So I texted my 18-year-old neice and said It's On! Oh, and BTW we're not going to a tattoo shop; we're going to a bikers' club. BUT IT'LL BE COOL.
I mean come on! It's your 18th birthday! In New Orleans! You're getting a tattoo! Might as well complete the picture, yes?
But I was like DON'T TELL YOUR DAD.
So she got her Incubus lyric and I got my magnolia.
