![]() I'd already discovered the work of Charles Addams via my parents weekly’ New Yorker, not to mention Mad Magazine and, natch, Forest J Ackerman's beloved Famous Monsters of Filmland magazine, the former running several howlingly funny Hitchcock parodies, the latter featuring endless stills from his movies. His corpulent frame and graveyard wit were perfectly in sync with my own budding love for all things weird, outré, and eerie. It was Hitch's mordantly droll intros and outros that bookended Alfred Hitchcock Presents that really hooked me on the man who, many years later, would take up a permanent place of pride on my own thin skin. Released on April 9, 1976, I would have been just shy of ten years old, but, of course, I knew all about Alfred Hitchcock from having previously watched some of the syndicated episodes of Alfred Hitchcock Presents on television (and read Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, too). My dad hated tattoos on principle so what he might have made of my choice gave me a moment's pause, but only a moment's, because Hitch's final film, Family Plot was the very first movie my dad took me to see in a theatre. Hitch's profile, I reasoned, grieving, would make fitting remembrance. I'd just seen a man die and that man was my father. We parted smiling at each other and I'd like to think the bag boy rushed over to Vulcan Video as soon as his shift ended, but somehow I doubt it. ![]() As I grabbed my groceries on the way out, she even declared the tattoo "a lovely little piece of artwork." I wanted to hug her, but figured public displays of affection for elderly strangers are likely frowned upon by HEB. At least the bagmaster learned something relevant to the history of cinema, and the abiding memories of gracious, aging female cinephiles. "Oh, wasn't he wonderful? You know which one of his I really liked? Strangers on a Train! That Bruno fellow –I forget the actor's name – he was just so wicked! It was on TCM the other afternoon, but I saw it when it came out in the real theatre."Ĭolor me gobsmacked, but thank goodness for little old ladies with a penchant for Fifties-era Hitchcock. (I think the word "fetish" tripped him up.) Luckily, the blue hair standing in line behind me helpfully chimed in. "You know, Psycho? Norman Bates? Fat British film director? Had a fetish for blondes? Famous the world over?"īlank look from the bagger. The bag boy at HEB the other day was clearly clueless and, after staring at the tat for a few moments, said something along the lines of "Hey dude, is that, like, supposed to be something or did you just, like, give up on it?" Upon seeing it, you either know what it is, and who it represents, or you wonder why I've got a cheap-looking black doodle inked on me for all eternity.Īctually, that happens quite a bit. I have a tattoo of Alfred Hitchcock's weirdly accurate line drawing of himself on my right forearm. ![]() The iconic silhouette from TV show Alfred Hitchcock Presents ![]()
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