For a thousand years, writers have been sitting in coffee shops (and bars) writing stories. I am in Starbucks, across the street from our Art Museum, sipping coffee, and bored as can be and reduced to staring out the window. All I am seeing is tourists covered in tattoos. Tattoos are a mystery to me. Here comes a tourist with tats (short for tattoos) all over his body. In the old days, if you saw a man covered in tats, he was a Hell's Angel biker, a mean scary bastard to be avoided. Now, a guy covered with tats turns out to be a Starbucks barista. He is so nice, smiles and greets you with, “How can I help you today?” So harmless. Then there are the ladies with the "tramp stamps". A whole generation of women with tats on the base of their spine just so you can see it, along with their thongs. Yeah, pretty trashy. The best tramp stamp ever is still, "Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me." I ...
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