If you've ever gotten a tattoo or piercing, you know that the Gods of Body Mod can be, shall we say, a little snotty. If you're not the "right" kind of client, you get icy treatment. I made the cut, as it were (I had 25 piercings by 1991, and back then, maaaan, that gave me The Cred), but I always hated hated hated that McOutlaw audition process you had to go through. "Are you a non-conformist just like us? Well, okay then! If not...hmph."

Griffin drips contempt for every deb, dude, novice, suburbanite, sorority girl, or otherwise non-hipster damaged person who crosses her path, and who crosses the threshold of the tat shop. Mix that with her hue and cry over the corruption of the West (oh GOD, that cliche again?) *and* the corruption of the sanctity of tattooing and you've got a great writer who you can't stand! Shame. She's got some real chops.

Only in the afterword does she a) pretty much confess that she herself is a whitebread exile in the McOutlaw world or b) show any thoughtfulness and generosity toward others regarding external markers and what they mean about identity (she finally realizes they don't mean much at all. welcome to adulthood, dollface.)

It's savagely ironic for someone who sells their tattoo skills to whine about the increasing popularity of tattooing. If you want to stay pure, stay out of the marketplace and stay in your tidy, kooler than thou bubble. It'll be lonely as hell, but at least you'll be assured that everyone around you meets your exacting alterna-snob standard.

Her use of language is fun and alive, but what she's choosing to communicate is petty and ugly and, frankly, about as tired as a tribal tat on the lower back.