We love you too, honey...

So this morning on the subway I was treated to an interesting sight. I'd actually speculated about this kind of thing before but I'd never actually seen it. I settled into my seat and because I didn't have a book with me, I just listened to my MP3 player (an audio book about Richard Burton and Liz Taylor's stormy romance). Just before the train left, in stepped a ponytailed man in his forties. He sat down in the side seats in front of me. There, on his neck, peeking out from the collar of his leather jacket, in carefully scripted, flowing cursive letters at high as a man's thumb, was tattooed Fuck Off, running from under his right ear towards his throat. If there was more to the missive, I'm not privy to it.

I've occasionally wondered about, but never thought I would actually see, something like that, unless possibly on a part of the body usually only seen at the beach (and probably a nude beach at that), but there it was. Every time this guy goes to work, or buys milk, or kisses his wife, or hugs his child, or sits on the subway; or you happen to meet the Prime Minister or the Queen, the President of the United States, the Chancellor of Germany, or the Emperor of Japan — there it is: Fuck Off. Intimidating? Yes, and no doubt intentionally. Pitiful? Far more so. He rode two stops and left, and I had to wonder what kind feelings the people waiting at home have concerning his arrival.