What ho, bitches!
News from Dupreland. Some of you may have heard that the United States had an election the other day. Now, being of Royal stock, though of a kingdom that no longer exists, I still have some reservations about the experiment of democracy. Old habits, generations in the making, do, dear readers, die hard. But I do participate in this democracy, and watched here in New York as the returns came in on what has been roundly called a historic night.
But here's the rub. I got - as is my wont - utterly inebriated election night and - I can't believe I'm typing this - I also got an enormous Obama tattoo. I'm mortified, dear readers! The details are foggy - I remember being in St Mark's place, and getting rather caught up with, well, initially a guerilla feminist street theater company (their description, not mine - I thought they were perfectly charming ladies) and then with a group of anarchists. Or hippies. I can only recall their stench. But what isn't foggy - alas, alack - are the expert details of this night forever imprinted upon my back. This tattoo, as far as I can tell by catching reflections of myself in the mirror, seems to be a mostly green dragon, with rainbow-colored butterfly wings, wearing brown puma high top sneakers. But most of its scales are colored red, white, and blue, and spell "hope" "change" "freedom" and "Ohio" but in that vision trick sort of way where one needs to stare at it and then the words pop out. Posters that employed this technique were readily attainable in the 90s in towns like Providence, Madison, Ithaca, Athens. You might also remember it from the cover of the first Dave Matthews Band album? Anyhow, atop this mythical beast apparrently of my own devising sits our president elect, holding the reins and wearing a two horned viking helmet and a suit of armor! And the dragon is flying over an assortment of presidents from the past - I've identified Polk, Buchanan, and Harrison, for some reason I seem to have forgone the more iconic past commanders in chief - all of whom are looking up and saluting. The tattoo, I'm afraid, is huge, and takes up most of my back!
I'm really embarrassed, dear readers, and it hurts, too!
Now the Dupre family is a modest clan, and the number of times that I have to bare the pink flesh of my upper body is thankfully few and far between. However, every summer we do gather on the Adriatic for weeks of swimming and reunions. How I will handle this I know not, but I have all winter to mull.
