No, this isn't the New York post.

It's not the Times, either. (Geez, I'm sorry. I couldn't resist.)

It's a little it related, because I realized I never showed off a picture of my favorite souvenir. Most everybody has seen it by now, but a few people haven't, and that's a shame. Here it is:





Yup, it's real. No, it didn't hurt very much. Every American over the age of 15 is now legally required to have one, unless you can prove an exemption. Not really, but it seems that way anymore. That's not why I got it, though. Even though all of you know that I am indeed obsessed with being cool, this had very little to do with the coolness factor. If it did, I would have gotten the swallows with the banner that I love and which means nothing to me. Instead I got this little picture, which is exactly what it appears to be. Say it out loud to yourself it you have to. That's right. I got my kids tattooed on my arm, right where I can see them every day. All together now: awwwww.

The thing is, I found that I liked it. A lot. No, not the pain - how many times do I have to tell you that's not my game? - but the idea that I could have a thought seared into my flesh, and it would be permanent. I could change myself with art. Stunning. Nerve-wracking. Now I want more. My first instinct was to get a bass clef tattoo. I am pretty committed to this band now, and it seems natural to commemorate it. But after consideration, I think my next one will be this:



That's orange blossoms, in case you're wondering. My mom is from Florida and her dad had a citrus farm. He did all kinds of weird experimental horticulture in the 1950's, but they still had plain ole orange trees, with blooms like this one. Have you ever smelled an orange tree in bloom? If I were a believer, that's what Heaven would smell like to me. So orange blossoms for my mom. She doesn't smell like orange blossoms. If there were a scent I associated with her, it would be leather gloves, Marlboro cigarettes, and Windsong perfume.

Any great tattoo ideas out there?