As soon as somebody invents one, buy stock in it. In the meantime, treat yourself to a copy of the latest issue of Creative Nonfiction Magazine. In it you’ll find a new essay of mine, “The Botch Job,” wherein I debate whether or not to fix a bad tattoo I once got in a basement on Eight Mile Rd. in Detroit. Should I cover it up? If so, with what? But wouldn’t that be chasing good money after bad?
Here’s a teaser from the piece:
I’ve got a bad tattoo, bad because it represents the flawed execution of an ill-conceived idea. The idea was bad for the usual reasons: I was young, rash, insecure; my aesthetic sense was half-formed at best. How bad is the execution? On a scale of one to ten, with one being “Stabbed in the Chest with a Bic” and ten “The Tattoo Equivalent of Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam,” I’d say mine clocks in at about a four (“Drunken Hackery”)—obviously better than two (“Rusty Sewing Needle in Juvi”) and three (“Right Handed Artist Experiments with Left Hand”) but still, it’s not a body feature I’m proud to show off.
To buy a copy of the issue (or better yet, subscribe to the magazine) click HERE.