Help Cabbages Get Inked!

Tomorrow's my annual adventure to the local amusement park, Kennywood. Where wooden roller coasters still clack onward... And Potato Patch fries are slathered in a delightful day-glo orange cheese that was only once vaguely acquainted with a cow.

How I love it!

But our discussion today will not entail just how many chili cheese dogs it's possible to eat before extending them in altered form to the coaster population as a whole...

Or about taking bets on how long the kid in the Garfield costume can stand 80% humidity before smothering in a pile of sweat, faux fur and chickenwire...

Or even predicting the Rorschach pattern of bruises I'll have after three rounds of jouncing around on the Exterminator. (Once I got an excellent seatbelt buckle-shaped bruise on my butt!... It kinda looked like Spongebob.)

But nope. Today, I want to talk to you about tattoos.

See, the one thing I've come to notice, as I wend my way through Kennywood's mouse-maze of ride queues, is that somehow I have come to be the only person in the entire tri-state region who isn't inked.

Grandmas sporting the barbed wire... Teens unveiling the disembodied heads of the Jonas Brothers... Hog-riders flapping Harley wings... Infants showing off that edgy Gerber logo, symbolizing their induction into those tough pre-school gangs...

Yes, one and all, they are branded with their interests... wearing their image on their sleeve. Or 48-inch waist. Or whatnot.

And then there's me.

But, see, the thing about tattoos is, they're pretty much forever. I'd want to really be certain about anything I put on myself until the end of time. I mean, I haven't even had the same shade of hair for more than six weeks sequentially...

How can I commit to something likely to hang around so much longer than that Spongebob seat buckle butt bruise?

So here's where you folks can help. If I were to get a tattoo and blend in with my fellow amusement enthusiasts, what should I choose?

Here are some of the things I was thinking about:


The Monroeville Zombies logo.


It says local. It says undead. And anyone who sees how pale I am would find it entirely believable. Plus, y'know, nobody wants to mess with someone who might, potentially, try to nibble your arm. I imagine I could get through those long concession and ride lines much quicker!


Old King Cole Slaw.


Marketing promotion meets body art! And it would end up being such a conversation piece!

Stranger: "So-- what's with the crown-wearing lettuce?"

Me: (sniff) Lettuce?! It's so clearly a cabbage! And what's with your Woody Woodpecker? I mean, he hardly had the charisma and talent of Bugs Bunny, did he?

See? I'd be destined to make all sorts of new friends!

The only drawback? Old King Cole Slaw becoming famous like this... well, he'd be likely to develop a big head. He'd be charging me for appearances here... Copping an attitude about the temperature in the crisper drawer... I don't know. I see trouble ahead.


Some Kind of Symbol I May Or May Not Know What It Means.


So often I see people with Chinese or Japanese characters, or swirls or Celtic knots, and I think it's so amazing and impressive how well-versed everyone seems to be in all these other cultures and languages.

I mean, how else could you guarantee that in Japanese it didn't say something like, "I'm an overweight, Japanese-illiterate American. Kick me"?

Now, me, unfortunately, I don't know Japanese or Chinese, or as much as I should about Celtic knots and ancient runes. So, to ensure the symbol I chose actually meant something-- even if I didn't know what it was-- I thought I would tap into the greatest, most extensive symbolic repository I knew--

The Wingdings font I have in Word.

There just seem to be so many options! I'm leaning toward one of those curlicue squigglies, or perhaps the file folder symbol. Either one of them could totally say "me."

What do you think?

Well, I'm anxious to hear your opinions. I suppose if I don't make a decision in time for tomorrow's amusement park outing, I can always save it for next year...

Sure, I'll be the only woman under 50 without a giant Tweety-bird on my boob. But good art takes time.

Hmmm... I wonder how I'd look with a cartoon sheep?....

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Shutterbug Pop and the Runaway Train

I've been thinking of getting a video camera.

Of course, knowing me, I will likely end up spending less time using it to capture meaningful holiday moments and unique historical attractions-- and more time figuring out how to do stop-animation film of, say, Marshmallow Peeps staging an Easter-time jailbreak or something.

But to each his own.

The thought of the video camera, however, brought back memories of the last real family trip my parents and I took together-- a trip to Disney, in my 17th summer...

And how the Frontierland roller coaster made a, er, lasting impression on my Pop.

I believe I mentioned last week that during the 80s, my father had a very high-tech video camera. Which meant it was roughly the size of a Victorian steamer trunk for a six-month voyage. And this being my last trip with the folks before permanently flying the nest, the Pop was determined to document ALL the memories using this fine example of technology.

So, as we passed through Frontierland, and waited in line for the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad ride, my father decided that it would be pretty cool to film being on the ride.

Now, I don't know if you're familiar with this ride or not, but it's styled like a runaway train, rolling through jagged Old West mountains and dry desert terrain. And is it fast! Many a set of Mickey Mouse ears-- and a zippity-do-da-dinner-- has been a casualty of this ride.

Having explored this ride previously on a band trip, I was well aware of this fact. But see here's the thing:

My dad is a very intelligent man, but he is not what you'd call "A Listener." I've learned over the years that I have about a five-word limit on my part of any conversation before he's already delving into more important things.

It's sorta like using Twitter. I know I'd better get what I have to say out in the allotted characters or it's all a no-go.

(Now I think about it, I probably became a writer so I could complete full sentences.)

Anyway, so when the Pop was explaining his plan for the Best Family Video Ever, I was getting out phrases like...

"But Pop, this is fast and--"

"Really fast, Pop! I don't think--"

"The curves, you see, are quite--"

"It winds, Pop, centripetal force, and--"


No dice. The five-word limit was still in place.

So as we strapped ourselves into the car-- Dad in the center with the electronic steamer trunk hoisted onto his shoulder-- well, I admit, I felt a certain smug anticipation. I mean, I know why I didn't stop him, but why no one else gave it a shot, I really can't say.

Or why he didn't pay attention to the signs saying "Secure Your Belongings, This is a Super-fast Ride and YOU, Sir, Still Seem to be Holding Very Expensive Recording Equipment."

Some footage apparently is worth the risk.

So the ride began at a nice enough pace. We chugged up the hill, the Pop smiling benevolently at Mom and me with the glow of a cameraman destined for home movie greatness.

And then we got to the top and Pop's whole perspective on the matter shifted.

So did the video camera.

As we roared around the turn-- the sounds of Jethro Tull's Locomotive Breath seemed to come to my ears-- and the camera had decided it would prefer to bow to the forces of physics over the force of one very determined tourist from New Jersey.

It took a feat of astounding strength for my father to even retain his grip on the machine-- so fast were we clattering over the rails, around horseshoe bends, and s-curves, with animatronic buzzards fluttering in wait.

The Pop managed through sheer will alone to force the camera into a spot of relative stability back down into the car, onto his leg. The ride, two thrilling minutes for some-- two terrifying minutes of destruction and potential lawsuits for another-- slowed at the station, the engine letting out a steamy sigh of relief.

My father did, too. We exited and Pop rose, only to notice his upper thigh had taken on a brand new feature...

A Victorian steamer trunk-sized, camera-shaped bruise.

I used my five word allotment:

"Told you it was fast."

Pop didn't find it nearly as funny as I did.

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