Something near and dear to me, something that is in fact a part of me has, almost since coming into existence, become trivialized. Every dim-witted flamejob with 40 bucks to spare can now be found with some kind of non-ear piercing. If you cannot understand the concept of the over-popularization of something dear to you, then you are one of the people I am going to be writing this about. The first of my dear conventions to be trivialized was punk music. Next came the piercings. I'm sure there's been others, but those are the main two.
Years and years ago, myself and a couple other friends wanted our bodies modified. I wanted this new thing where they actually put an earring-type ring through your eyebrow, which most people said looked disgusting, and they each wanted ho-hum tattoos. They both talked big about themselves being the first to satisfy their urges while I quietly sat back and listened to their back and forth banter about the ordeal. I waited for the right opportunity, and a time when I had enough money. That time came when my mom was awarded a Mexican vacation by her work. My dad worked during the night, so he wouldn't even see me until the weekend anyhow. I made the appointment with great trepidation, all alone in the tough-guy atmosphere of the tattoo parlour. I was the first of us to make their modification dream a reality. When the day came, a number of my friends piled into a car to go with me. I think they thought I was going to back out of something. Not likely. We went in, and they waited, flipping through the tattoo books as the piercist sterilized everything. The whole thing was so interesting. The little room with the black dentist type chair called me to it and I sat, waiting. She clamped the blood out of the eyebrow, hooked a ring to a needle and threaded me like a Tibetan rug. It was so wonderful. The pain that came was short, but very sweet indeed. At this point in my life, my shoulders were heavy with troubles. My brain racked with guilt and choices, my chest full of stressful, stabbing kinder toys. In such an instant when the needle appeared out the other side of my skin, it all melted off me like so much cholesterol-rich butter in the summer sun. Somehow I knew it would. Somehow I knew that would be the case. I knew it would be a very relieving experience for me, which was one of the major reasons I did it. All that must have been nearly 5 years ago. Some years after that, after a particularly crushing spring and summer, I knew I needed such a feeling, such a release, one more time. I made another appointment, for my lip. It felt even better than the eyebrow. There was more pain, and more relief when it was gone. It was the equivalent of 17 hours of massage, or something along those lines.
But wait a minute Doc, weren't you talking about trivialization? Well yes, thank you for bringing me back to the subject. My personal beef is with those who don't quite realize what piercings are for.
They are not:
for simple decoration
to make you look cool
just something to do
something to fill spare time
good looking on everyone
compatible with sports hats, gap/abercrombie/roots clothing, or striped sweaters
They are:
for relief of stress using pain
statements of a certain state of mind, which many of you are not in
sexy on the right girls, ridiculous on others
a ritual part of a subculture, which once again, many of you are not in
I am quite aware this will sound ‘hypocritically close minded' to those who think they know me. It may even perhaps seem to be a device of inclusion/exclusion on my behalf. However, do not mistake me, for I do not infringe on your nikes, tearaways, flared track pants, sandals/flip- flops, gold chains, $100 jeans, goatees, leather pants, big shiny belts, over-compensating automobiles, dyed blonde hair, tank tops, $30 socks, dance/techno/house/overplayedtop40 music, overpriced sweaters with 3 stitches of a brand name in on the breast, car stereos with only bass, or any of your other examples extraneous, squandered wealth... so please, do not infringe on the little which I hold dear to myself. Please, take that $40 dad gave you for just being you and but it towards a new pair of jeans to impress the next drunken hoochie you bring home from the bar. It's either that... or face me in a gap hat, generic-'brand name' striped sweater, khaki shorts and blue nike flip flops with a gold chain on my neck and my 8th beer in my hand. Trust me, I'd look as out of place in that as you would with just a small ring dangling from your crusty eyebrow, off your puffy lip, out of your sore nose, out of your swollen tongue. Just trust me on this one.
Get your own Free Home Page