Here I Stand, I Can Tattoo No Other

Traffic is picking up around here. I don't ask to be made a cult figure (at least not until I get around to finishing a frickin' book). I'm happy and pleasantly surprised as long as my daily visitors are in the double digits. If I really wanted hundreds of people to come through here, I suppose I'd be writing about, like, my sex life. But one of the tenets of nicemodernism is that quality always trumps quantity.

That said, I wanted to take a moment to say hello to all of the random people who are finding this blog because they pulled up an image of my tattoo on Google Images. In fact, it's the sixth image that comes up when you search for "luther rose." Which I suppose is pretty cool. (And yes, I know it might be marginally inappropriate to have a symbol of my faith placed in the spot on one's body where tattoos are referred to as "tramp stamps," but I wasn't ready for a shoulder tattoo yet, and my biceps need a lot more toning before a needle should be allowed near them.)

And since people are being pulled in by images of my tattoo, it's only fair to take this opportunity to plug MacDougal Tattoo on Sullivan Street in the Village. Andrea Elston is the artist who did this one, and I can't recommend her enough.

But since this tattoo is also a symbol of the Lutheran faith, now's a good time to invite you to the St. John-St. Matthew-Emmanuel Lutheran Church Passion Play, which is going on this evening at 7:30, and which I will be performing in. I sing in public (without the aid of alcohol, I mean) exactly once a year, and this is it. It's a unique and enjoyable way to commemorate Good Friday, and this year's show is particularly excellent.

And while we're on the subject of hip Protestants, check out this article about the U2-themed eucharist at a church in Providence. I'm very tempted to read the book mentioned in the article: One Step Closer: Why U2 Matters to Those Seeking God by Christian Scharen. As someone who certainly wouldn't turn down divinity school if I had the financial resources, this sort of intellectual exploration of theology in everyday life is fascinating to me.

Eat the Rich, but watch out for the bleach

I'm going to make an odd foray into the topic of hair color, which I suppose is the sort of subject that you might find better served on "Sex and the City," in chick lit, or one of the 4829048 blogs out there with proprietresses who emulate the chic New York City-dwelling, cosmo-sipping, pointy-shoe-wearing, indiscriminate-schtupping-of-investment-bankers-under-the-guise-of-female-empowerment lifestyle.

A casual observer who's never actually met me might mistake my life for something sort of like that. After all, I work in publishing, I live in New York, I'm female, I'm approaching my late twenties, and I'm not married. Oh yeah, and I'm blonde, which I didn't realize was such a hallmark of the sophisticated New York woman until the Gray Lady released their expose of blonde ladies on Sunday.

So why do I have blonde hair? Ironically, it's because I can no longer be bothered to dye it. While it was all kinds of crazy colors when I was in college, and it was a lovely shade of B-52s red for about a month last year, the color I have now is completely, totally, 100% natural. Well, okay, 99% natural - I had highlights done in December, when I was in Montana for Christmas and my mom's friend did them for about $40, though I'm pretty sure those are mostly gone now. Other than that, what grows on my head is what God intended to grow there - an effect which, apparently, goes for hundreds of dollars here in the city. So I guess according to the Times, I'm a (lower-case) blonde, though they don't address the nomenclature for those of us who are blonde by default, and not by high-priced salon OR Natural Instincts.

Honestly, though, this glorification of hair color as hallmark of lifestyle is enough to make me want to shave my head. I would rather be published in McSweeney's than appear in New York Social Diary. My idea of a good date is settling in to watch a new Lost with takeout from Ottomanelli's. (Nobu Matsuhisa and Amy Sacco are not consulted.) My dream job would involve helping people, rather than making them feel inadequate because they aren't spending more money (see: fashion, consumer magazines, art galleries, auction houses). Certainly I would never want to hang out in a social circle, or work for a company, where my hair color was a bigger reason to keep me around than, say, my intelligence or my sense of humor.

I like the fact that my life is far from glamorous. I hope it never IS glamorous. The fact that I have to deal with the New York Blonde and her cadre of wannabes - at my job, in my high school alumni magazine, and ubiquitous in popular culture - is something I consider a necessary evil to be endured as the price I pay for living in New York. Sort of like the crowded subway platforms and the high cost of living and the fact that you have to go to three different grocery stores to get everything on your shopping list.