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You know, I'm a lot like Eminem. No, I don't write songs about kidnapping and locking my ex-lovers in the trunk of my car or sing dreamy duets with Elton John, but when Mr. Mathers recently lost one of his homies, he got some ink on his arm to memorialize the guy. With me, it's no different. A close buddy of mine suddenly died over the summer, so I decided to make his memory a part of my dermal landscape forever. On my girl Cyndi's recommendation, I ended up at Philadelphia Eddie's Tattoo. I gave Troy, the tattoo artist, a written description of my bodily oeuvre, and within two weeks his rendering of it was finished, and I was in the hot seat getting black and grey ink drilled indelibly into my arm. What else can I say? It was pretty damn expensive. It hurt. But now that it's done, I know it was completely worth it. Not only that, but you would not believe some of the eccentric characters I saw in there: Middle-aged tourists, West Philly gangstas, heavily mascara'd platinum-blonde bombshells, South Jersey couples, bespectacled scenester boys, and tattoo enthusiasts with more ink on 'em than naked skin. You want a melting pot? Go to a tattoo parlor.
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