by Ted Sherman

Created on: January 23, 2008

Ever since I was an 18-year-old Navy boot camp grad, and after being assigned to a ship in San Francisco as it was preparing to head out to the Pacific during World War II, I've known about tattoos. Many of the older crewmen on the ship, "lifers", regular Navy guys with pre-war service in China waters, had elaborate tattoos. Some were just little anchors and sweetheart names, while others were intricate, colorful illustrations of dragons and animals that covered an arm or an entire back.

To we young wartime-only sailors who had to take orders from those wise old salts, there was considerable pressure to find the 'Frisco parlors and get ourselves tattooed. The routine was to get as drunk as possible and then go get the painful job done. Although most of my pals were still teens, we could always find bars to serve us, or get an older sailor to buy us bottles from liquor stores. When you're all liquored up and striding proudly along the street in your new Navy uniform, you believe you could do anything you wanted.

For some reason I still can't fathom to this day, I missed the trip to the grungy, back-alley parlor where four of my shipmates got their first tattoos. Quick story ending: They all came down with allergic skin reactions and serious infections from the dirty needles, inks and other equipment. City authorities closed down the shop, a bit too late.

Since then, I've always felt that anyone who voluntarily gets his/her skin disfigured by dragons, cartoons or Mom's name is wrong. I'm aware that tattoos have been around since pre-history, and the practice has had a surge of popularity over the past several decades. However, even with regular health inspections and more advanced instruments, the physical dangers of the painful process are still there. But beyond that, I believe each person who decides to get a tattoo, whether drunk or sober, should take a moment to consider some questions.

Why are you doing it? Do you feel your nature-formed body just doesn't give the world enough of an impression as to how macho you are, or angry, or stupid, or great at sports, or super wealthy, or sexy or whatever? Have you thought ahead 20, 30, 40 years to imagine what those great, brilliantly colored illustrations will look like when your body withers, bleaches and sags? I remember how like illustrated chickens some of those old, old Navy CPOs looked as they dragged themselves shirtless around the decks.

Just as important, if not more so, how do you know you won't have allergic

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