The Symbology Audit

In what can only be explained as a cruel twist of fate that proves there is no god, I ended up eating at IHOP yesterday.

I think a lot of people forget that IHOP stands for INTERNATIONAL House of Pancakes. Until they walk in and are immediately inundated by that distinct, world-wide flair. 

The kind of Deja Vu that says, “I’ve been here before. Where do I recognize this place from.” And then you realize, oh, it was on the Champs de Elysee. 

It’s a jarring call back. Like when you were a kid and your dad caught you jerking off to amputee porn and made you paint the garage as punishment. Now every time you’re in Home Depot and see a can of Dutch Boy matte white you get so embarrassed and turned on at the same time that you have to hire some Guatemalan landscapers from the parking lot to tag team your girlfriend. 

It’s confusing. Like ordering at IHOP. I’m always baffled by the complex international menu. Every dish comes with a pedigree that requires a glossary to understand. The heirloom hash browns from volcanic soil potatoes harvested in the Himalayas. The free range pork sausage, accompanied by a paragraph detailing the source pig’s psychological well-being and musical preferences. 

The kind of curated, culinary journey designed to make you feel intellectually superior for eating processed American cheese.

It’s a lot to take in.

So I just had the Flap Jack du Jour. My Syrup Steward helped me with the selection. I chose a dry maple. It was busy, but never precocious. 

I chose a simple dish, and it was perfect because it didn’t demand respect. It didn’t demand that I contemplate my place in the universe or question my capacity for basic joy. 

Pancakes are not over-complicated. That’s what makes them great.

Not every choice needs to be backed by profound justification. 

There was a time when tattoos required almost no explanation at all. You saw something you thought looked dope. You paid, you bled, you wore it. Done deal.

Somewhere along the line, every quarter sized ankle piece became expected to carry the emotional weight of a graduate thesis, a spiritual awakening, and a decade of intensive therapy.

It’s rare that someone walks into a shop, sees some panther flash, and says: “that’s bitchin’, put it on my arm.”

Now, that panther represents resilience. It represents growth. It represents overcoming adversity. The complicated relationship with vulnerability and the passing of time. The subject itself is almost irrelevant. It’s basically just a crisis vessel used as stiff choreography for performing centered.

Don’t get me wrong. Some tattoos absolutely mean something. Commemorating loved ones, marking major life events, carrying reminders of things that were survived. Being the fifth runner up on Season 2 of Rock of Love. 

But they don’t all need back stories. 

One of the stranger developments in modern tattooing is the immense pressure people feel to justify every piece. It’s like we’re scared to admit we bought something just because it looked cool. We have to build an entire muti-verse and an origin story around it. 

I’ve had clients act embarrassed for wanting a tattoo with zero meaning. Like they showed up for an exam they didn’t study for.

I’m not going to report you to the Board of Aesthetics. I don’t give a single, fat, flying fuck. And neither does this screaming eagle with a dick and balls.

The eagle isn’t judging you. The snake isn’t asking for a written statement. The skull and dagger aren’t waiting to hear how your chakras re-aligned when you shit your pants coming down off of ketamine in Sedona.

They’re just good designs. 

Not every decision needs to be optimized for personal growth. Sometimes a tattoo is just a bumper sticker on your nerdy ass clarinet case of a body.

Most people don’t even discover the real meaning until after the fact anyway. That poor choice you made because you were twenty-two and didn’t know your face from your ass yet might remind you of a beautiful chapter of your life by forty-five. Meaning arrives naturally after you actually live it. It doesn’t need to be pre-installed like some kind of iOS update. 

It just needs to be honest.

A tattoo doesn’t become important because you posted it on Instagram and turned the caption into a five paragraph essay about gratitude. It becomes important because it survived your life alongside you.

So, if you’ve been holding off on getting something because you don’t have the perfect, tear jerking explanation ready when people ask, consider this your permission slip.

You don’t need a reason. 

It’s not a therapy session. It’s body art. 

Get the fucking panther.