Inky Dinky Fallbrook

I am frankly worried about the economic vitality of my town. We are losing shops on Main St. in droves. In the early part of the century, Fallbrook was known for ostriches and olives. Then in the thirties we achieved acclaim for our luscious oranges and avocados. But they raised the price of water so high that we lost most of our groves.

In the seventies I am told that the area was a fertile ground for marijuana growing. The story goes that most of the growers either moved to Anza or got religion.

We eventually achieved notoriety for a certain white supremacist who lived in town. He skedaddled a couple of years ago when his estranged mother died in Indiana and he got a place to crash for free.

So now we are apparently left with only one cash crop - skin. Everywhere you look, new tattoo parlors are cropping up. I found three new ones last week alone. What is going to happen when the epidermis crop withers and these entrepreneurs are left with nary a torso in sight to ink, pierce and flame? Will these budding Cezannes be able to weather the downtimes after all of your wannabee Maoris are stuck in nursing homes and their once proud battleships have sunk from their chests to their stomachs?

What happens when the current rage for prison calligraphy on your neck becomes de riguer? Is it possible to get a total skin peel to remove your of many colors? Will all of these Rembrandts with needles be fighting in the street over that last customer who just has to have one of those ultra fresh pieces of barbed wire wrapped around their bicep? Does the shock value of your gang tattoo diminish when your mom and dad come home sporting identical graphics? How far off is the technology that will enable us to save the fleshy adornments of our departed loved ones and hang them on the wall in a suitable and tasteful frame?

Curious.