Ink
I did not attend the roller derby bout on Sunday, 16 January. I regret the decision not to attend, but I was fatigued after two consecutive nights of staying out late skanking to The Loose Ties. The Wednesday after the bout, my mobile telephone rang; the handy exterior screen showed a incoming number, not a name, meaning the call was not from a number listed in my registry. I usually do not answer such calls, but a few days earlier I'd missed a call from The Most Dangerous Game, ringing me from a landline at her workplace; so, I opened my flip phone, pressed "SEND," & said, "Ahoy-hoy," which I am phasing in to replace my formerly habitual greeting, "Y'ello" (a sloppy contraction of "yeah" & "hello"). The caller did I identify herself, but stated that she was calling for Mike Wilson on behalf of the Flint City Derby Girls. I identified mysel, & she informed me that I had won a prize in the raffle held at the bout I'd missed. At the fall's bouts, two types of raffle tickets had been sold, those for the fifty-fifty raffle held at every bout & fancier tickets for a raffle to be held on 16 January. This raffle, & my purchase of a handful of tickets for same, had entirely slipped my mind. The grand prize? An electric guitar. I know next to nothing of guitars, but they made it out to be a pretty sweet axe. I did not win the guitar. Instead, I won a $100 gift certificate to a tattoo parlor in Fenton, which the caller sent me in the post, arriving on the subsequent Friday.

I have one tattoo, a black skull-&-crossbones on my left forearm, inked almost nine years ago. I have plans (designs & placements decided after long & sober reflection) for a great many more tattoos, but I cannot justify the expense until I have brought Project RADIANT to a successful conclusion. This prize, however, is a horse of a different color. The raffle ticket was a trifle; I expected it to be nothing more than a small donation to the Flint City Derby Girls, a token of my appreciation for all the entertainment they provide. But once won I dare not let it go to waste: that would be like spitting in providence's eye. So, I shall soon be acquiring a new tattoo, as soon as I can converse with my future tattooist, to take the measure of his ability & determine which of my ink schemes can be achieved for not more than a trifle above the gift certificate's worth. But which? Not in order of any precedence:

{a} left hand - "M I K E" across the proximal phalanges, Latin cross adorning the metacarpal gap twixt thumb & index finger (after "Joliet" Jake & Elwood Blues) Not at this time, 'twould too severely limit the fields in which I might find gainful employment.

{b} right forearm (mirroring the skull-&-crossbones) - a robot flying saucer used as the original mascot of the Cartoon Network's Toonami programming block

{c} right forearm underside - functionalist-style figure of a man (like on a handicap parking sign or restroom sign) on fire (after the novel The Stars My Destination)

{d} left forearm underside - "He was one hundred and seventy days dying and not yet dead." (the opening line of chapter one of The Stars My Destination)

{e} right upper arm/shoulder - black map of the British Raj & Ceylon, with outlines of modern national borders; below which, "The Black Raj," in a Hindi-styled English script

{f} left upper arm (half sleeve) - red dragon, oriental not occidental (after the Fountains of Wayne song "Red Dragon Tattoo")

{g} chest, over heart - black Maltese cross

{h} chest, below right collarbone - red blood drop with "B+", my bloodtype, in white; nearby "In case I perish: I am an organ donor, take what you need."

I have many other ideas, foremost among them the B.T.W. logo, but face the small obstacle of there not being an official B.T.W. logo extant at the moment. Once that's nailed down I'll have to decide upon a place & size & then be confident in that decision for six months before any ink could be applied. A tattoo is a commitment not to be entered into lightly.

Autobahn
Lumi's front brakes are making a horrific grinding sound; not the high-pitched squealing that alerts you to the wearing away of the brake pads, but something altogether more hefty & sinister. Brakes being a rather more basic necessity of successful motoring (There is no reason to fear a fall from a great height, only the sudden stop at the end.), I shall have to have that looked after upon the morrow. Such are the manifold joys of owning a fifteen-year-old motorcar!

On the bright side, at least the new Michelins I had to buy in the fall so as not to perish on the winter's icy highways & byways are giving me oodles of grip on those same icy highways & byways. Vive la France!

The Rebel Black Dot Song of the Day
Guster, "All the Way Up to Heaven" from Lost and Gone Forever (T.L.A.M.)

Commentary: Nominations are always welcome, all the way around the clock, all the way around the Accursed Sun.