To the Artist's Page To our home page
To Nora Peevy's previous piece
Mama's Boy "No pictures of naked ladies for my son," he said. The rugged biker with the white Walt Whitman beard slouched on the pine green leather couch, a blue-jean anachronism amongst the pale Goth ghosts. Clad in skin-tight black vinyl minis, sleek black leather pants, black lace evening gloves, and chunky knee-high boots they floated past him with their elaborate Vampira look, their eyes lined in thick black curly-cues, and their bodies adorned with intricate tattoos of angel wings, demons, and rose-entwined ankhs. "I can't stand needles," he said. "So when I go to the Sturgess Rally I draw my tattoos on my arm. Then I can wash them off." And before he meandered off with his beer in hand onto the thick smoke-filled dance floor he added, "But if I were to get one it would say 'mom.' I'd tattoo one 'm' on each cheek and when I stood on my head it would say 'wow.'"
To the top of this page