I spent the day working in Williamsburg, Brooklyn in what seemed like an animated cartoon strip.
Everywhere you looked, there were pregnant women about to deliver, endowed with breasts of massive proportions, plastered with tats, as they call tattoos down on 8th Street.
And I’m not referring to a demure rose or butterfly gracing a shoulder. I’m talking Archie Comics gleaming in the August sun.
And these women were young and saucy, strutting along Bedford Avenue, Williamsburg’s main drag, with attitude to spare.
I couldn’t help admiring them for a bevy of reasons, especially all that cleavage leading the way. I’d need a roll of gaffer’s tape, the big size, to pull that off.
And their men either doting on their every need, or carrying a newborn in a sling draped across their mutually stenciled chests, while Mom bounced along, were very sexy in their papa-hood, making me think of cavemen of yore.
One couple, in particular, pulled out my pen. A girl, in her 20s, built like a Botero painting ….robustly round, but solid as its canvass, her man, tall and gangly with legs the length of a ladder loping alongside carrying recycled totes filled with groceries. One said…I’m A Brooklyn Baby, another, I Speak Brooklynese.
She had a rose-colored tattoo of a string of pearls perfectly painted around her neck, catching my Connecticut eye. Hmm, I thought, it would be as if you never had to unclip that choker, pearled into eternity, since that’s the thing about tattoos, they’re a commitment. It’s not as if you can take one off like a pair of pants you bought when you were drunk.
And that laser business fades, at best. Just ask Johnny Depp whose Winona could only be reduced to Wino.
Excuse me while I find some empty bottles and hop a train.