Da Smokehouse

      More Letters From Paradise
           Da Smoke House
I felt naked, as I was the only one a the bar without a tattoo. It was not yet noon but some of the persons were clinging to their stools, and fighting the sound of the ice in their glasses.  Hemingway would have loved this place, as he wrote about" some worthless characters."  The barmaid was discussing her plans for decorating her one arm. The other one was already covered with a dragon.       She wanted this arm to tell a story. A well-worn woman came in and took a seat. "Coffee," she said. "We don't have any," came from the other side of the bar. "That's o.k., I'll have a beer." The bar clock read 9:25 a.m. Other patrons clutched their beer bottles and mused about the previous night. One guy said that he had never seen so many tits and tattoos in his life. Some grass too.
You may ask why this writer was also occupying one of the stools. It's like this. Tonto promised some new, never-been used martini glasses to the owner of the bar.  I was the designated bearer of the glasses.  And so it was, in the early morning January First, 2014, at the Smoke House, Honolulu, Hawaii.
I have never been an admirer of tattoos. I know that in Western culture, they were used to mark criminals. In the Pacific, tattoos are a part of family history and culture. Some of them are quite nice. But I remember when I was in the Navy watching, as a drunk 17 year old climbed into his bunk, with a tissue on his arm covering the words "Death Before Dishonor," or maybe "Mother," with a red heart." I think it is so sad to see an attractive girl with with a tattoo while wearing formal dress. And there are people who have tattoos where you could only guess they might be. If you change your mind about removing the name of your old girlfriend, the process is both expensive and painful. But live and let live, if you desired it, enjoy your tattoo. But, as for me, I think I'll pass.

            Aloha
            Grant