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   In order for this story to make sense, I must go back 35 years or so. Do not be impatient, I will be brief.
   I am 19 years old and in the United States Navy, on board the USS Dixie AD 14. We have set sail several months ago and are in the middle of what is known as a “West Pac” cruse, short for Western Pacific. Hong Kong is the port we have dropped our anchor, and it must be around 1971.
  I had been reassigned from the shop I worked in, I was a pipe fitter and welder, and placed in rather unpleasant, mess duty, working in the “Scullery” washing dishes.  This meant little shore leave for me and the other guys also being punished. Whoops, I might have left something out here. Remember, I did promise to be brief.
  The one time that we were able to go “on the beach” it was necessary to do as much as possible in a very short period of time. And yes, drinking was something that seemed important at the time. Also getting that “souvenir” tattoo in the Orient was on our list. Actually there was no list and the drinking seemed to be taking over our priorities. In that part of town you could not swing a cat by the tail without hitting a Bar or a Tattoo Parlor. In we went, I pointed to a picture on the wall and then to my leg. In case you can’t tell, very little planning had taken place. I didn’t have a clue why or what. I do recall thinking “Don’t get a tattoo that can’t be covered up during a job interview” hence the leg and not the forehead. The butterfly on the wall looked pretty; please remember times were different back then.
   Pushing the fast forward button to present day 2007, wow, I never thought I’d make it; the little butterfly is faded and blurry. But it has been useful to my friends and co workers as material for a good tease. When things really get mean the name “Butterfly Boy” always comes out, followed by “Are you goofy?”  Answer: no!
Even my daughter, from time to time, will join in on the fun. So what is a guy to do?
  Actually there are several different options; it can be covered up by a larger tattoo. This usually is obvious and looks just like a “covered up” tattoo. Or lasers can be used to remove them; this takes 6 or 8 rather painful treatments, and is never 100% and leaves a scar. It is not that important to me, one way or the other. I must admit, over the years, I have become rather attached to the little guy and would hate to see him go.
     But the thought of having it eaten intrigued me, and was worth exploring. Let me see now, maybe a dragon or tiger will do the trick. Maybe not, those are rather large. But a snake, curling around on my leg, its mouth wide open, fangs exposed, ready for a strike! Eating the butterfly any second, sounds good to me! 
    I next find myself downtown, walking into a tattoo parlor. There are several young people hanging around out front. These are the “fringe people” outcasts and protesters. We used to call these kinds of people “hippies” or “dropouts” They look different now. But for some reason these people that want to protest society and be different than everyone else, all look exactly alike!  Straight black hair, white skin, black baggy clothes, tattoos, no job! They could have been triplets!! Their DNA could have been the same; they all looked like they could be their own cousin. OK, enough, it can be fun being a red neck.
   Inside the shop I walk, I felt out of place and must have looked it. “Can I help you?” I get from the back of the room. “Yes” I reply. “No, I mean Tattoo wise” again a faceless voice from the depths. “Yes” once again, trying to be heard over the blasting punk rock noise coming from a rather cheap radio. Did I feel like a geek? No actually, I just felt old! “Have a seat, be there in a minute”
    Sitting down I look up, there are seemingly thousands of pictures on the wall, ceiling, staircase, even the floor! The floor, by the way, is dirty, windows dirty, couch I’m sitting on, dirty. Guy coming out to talk to me, you guessed it, dirty.  Maybe if I pretend to be enjoying the music he will think I’m cool. Maybe if I tap my foot or snap my fingers, that should work. But to what, it is just horrible noise, making my ears hurt.
   He approaches me while I am noticing that he looks just like the zombies out front, except he has a job. Awkward first meeting, his idea of a hand shake was way different than mine, and so we proceed.
    “I want a snake to eat this butterfly” I say trying to be serious and funny at the same time. He looks at the butterfly and snickers, not the candy bar, the smirk on the face kind of snicker. The butterfly is older than him by at least a decade. His attitude, oddly enough, does not make me mad it just confirms my decision to have this done.
     He toss’s a large book at me saying “there are lots of snakes in here, have a look”. I do as I was instructed; it is unwise to anger your tattoo artist, I am sure. I am looking at gothic snakes, fantasy snakes, snakes crawling out of skulls, snakes breathing fire, snakes with flags, with Harleys, snakes curling around very well built women in various stages of dress. Nothing interests me in any way, except for the ones with the girls. Anyway, this is not working; I need to do some homework. (Little has changed since school) But instead of riding my bicycle to the library I drag out the old lap top at home. People sure have it easy these days.
   Pictures of real snakes are a big help because I want a real snake to dine on the butterfly. Lots of very pretty, colorful, scary looking snakes, none however with the fangs necessary for the job. I think I can improvise; it is my tattoo after all. I have a certain shape and position in mind and the only thing to do is draw it myself, fangs and all.
  An hour later I look down into my trash can, half full. But I am making progress; there is a head and mouth that look pretty much like what I have in mind. Shape of the body takes several more tries. I am running out of eraser. I think I will open up the mouth just a bit, teeth longer, it needs meaner eyes. Can’t forget the ever important forked tongue, this is looking good. I think I am ready to make a phone call and an appointment, do you think he would be offended if I ask him to wash his hands?
    The washing of the hands is a moot point because he doesn’t answer the phone. Maybe he is in the bathroom, now the hand washing thing is getting really important, I need answers. A couple hours and several phone calls later he picks up, “Yea”, I seem to be bothering him but I ask anyway, “Can I come in tomorrow?” I want to say please but I have pride, really. 
“I’ll be in tomorrow around 2 o’clock” he says. “Fine” I say. Just who goes to work at 2 anyway? “See you at 2”
   I am downtown at 1:30; I have plans for dealing with the pain. You see there is a little “Hole in the wall” bar around the corner; I think I am being very sneaky and plan to cheat a little. Am I the first one to think of this? Two shots of Tequila later I am ready!
   I show up precisely at 2, picture of snake in hand. I am there, the zombie people are there, other tattoo guys are there, the same dust on the floor is there, but my guy is nowhere to be seen.  I am told he will be there soon and to have a seat, I chose the chair out front on the side walk, the weather is perfect, and some fresh air will not hurt. The zombie people have left, so I wait.
   What happens next is the reason I am writing this down, I do not want to forget how fortunate I am. I never want to take for granted what makes me tick or my feelings toward the things that are important to me………..
 I am just sitting there looking first one way then the other, hoping my tattoo guy will show up soon, when around the corner comes a 20 something year old man. Small in stature and from a distance he looks much like the zombie people, except more tattoos, many more. As he approaches I notice his eyebrows are shaved off and tattoo designs are there instead, tattoos on face, neck, head, all the way down to his feet. Tattoos on arms appear to be covering up track marks. Piercing everywhere, many I am sure I do not want to know about. I don’t believe he has had a bath in days, but the most astonishing thing about this man is the fact that he is pushing a baby stroller, baby and all! (No tattoos on baby that I could see) Is it his baby? Did he steal it? Is he actually allowed to reproduce? What is the mother thinking? Good Lord!
   He is friendly enough and flashes a smile revealing very bad teeth. “Dude, you gett’n some ink?”
   “Yes I am” I say, pretending I new that, ink, meant tattoo. “But my guy isn’t here yet”.
    “You see this work?” He says, pulling up one pant leg of his short pants. “All single needle, all done by hand” Translation: Jail house tattoos.
   “I am just getting one on my lower leg” I say, and I proceed to tell him my age old theory on tattoos. “Never get one that can’t be covered up during a job interview” It was much too late for him but he repeats what I said. “Job interview?” Like he wasn’t sure what I was talking about.
   I am not sure if I offended him, but as he turned to walk away, he gave me his theory. “Tattoos are all about not giving a darn about nothin’!” 
   That point would be hard to argue with. He was gone before I could reply, but it did get me to thinking….
                         Just what do I care about??
   There are so many things I care about there is not enough room on this computer. Many things go without saying. I care about my daughter, my health, paying my bills, flossing, showering, and driving carefully, on and on. But oddly enough one of the first things that came to mind was that I care to see the world from places very few people have seen.
   I have seen the world from the top of Alta Peak, from the top of Rocky Mountain State Park, from the top of Half Dome in Yosemite Valley, from Glacier National Park, from Sequoia National Park. I have seen the United States, coast to coast, Mexico to Canada, from on top of a Harley Davidson Motorcycle.
I have peaked out at the world from the crown of the Statue of Liberty and the top of the Empire State Building, and have seen the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial. I have admired the beauty of the Grand Canyon, Monument Valley, and Death Valley, Mt Whitney and the Presidents at Mt Rushmore. I have ridden the red rock deserts of the great state of Utah, the entire coastline of California and Oregon, and the mining country in southern Colorado. And I am far from through.
     Caring about anything has escaped this young man for generations passed, and probably, generations well into the future. He did not have, does not have, or ever will have a clue.
   I feel very lucky for many reasons, I have a wonderful daughter, I have good friends and good health. I just retired from a very good job, and own a nice home. I never want to take these things for granted, don’t get me wrong, I also have many faults, but over all I am a very lucky guy.
   I will continue to care about and do the things that I love as long as I am able. Life is not over just yet.
   It is now 2:40, the tequila has worn off and I decide I am tired of being around people who don’t care! As I am getting into my truck a tattoo guy (not mine) comes out and says “He should be here any minute” Rolling down the window while I’m backing out I say “I have changed my mind”
   Not really, I just don’t want to be there, it is depressing. So I let my fingers do the walking and find a Tattoo Parlor that is clean, professional, and actually takes and keeps appointments.
   A couple days later, when my time comes up and I am on the table getting the snake I remember how much this really hurts! Damn, half way through getting my “ink” it occurs to me that I forgot to drink more tequila shots! I am tough; I do not complain, whine or cry.
   A couple of weeks later I am healed up, the colors are pretty and the snake is having his first meal. I have upped my “tattoo coolness” I am also more comfortable with myself and have a renewed appreciation for life. Thank you young man, I wish you and your baby well.