THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Wednesday, October 11, 1995 TAG: 9510110063
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E5 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: LAWRENCE MADDRY
LENGTH: Medium: 79 lines
YOU CAN SEE anything in California and twice as much of it on the beaches.
But I'm not talking about skimpy bikinis here. No, it was the Lard of the Rings.
He had flopped onto his back about 10 feet from the surf, atop an Army blanket. His delicate eyes were protected from the noon sun by a pair of connected plastic cups.
He must have weighed in at more than 250 pounds. His shoulder-length hair, black at the roots, had been bleached. It fanned out like a tangled halo behind his head, in a color of brown rarely seen, approximating dirty cardboard.
My first impression was that he might be someone who moved pianos for a living. Massive head. Muscular arms. But a middle-aged paunch like a pink pumpkin bulged above his cut-off jeans. Black hairs, clumped like spiders, sprouted from his pink, heavy thighs.
I could tell he was a religious person by the cross tattooed on his shoulder. And that he was a nature lover - by the coiled snake needled onto his bicep.
But it was his jewelry that caught my attention. The guy was into rings. And rings were into him.
He sported one in each nipple, at least three or four in his belly button. And matching pairs of them - two in each nostril - on his nose.
You could tell he was a refined person because the gold rings, not much larger than a dime, were narrow and delicate. Little ovals of gold sparkling in the sunlight.
We get some pretty odd characters in and around Chic's Beach from time to time. Some with fascinating tattoos. But nothing like the Lard of the Rings.
He seemed to be pure California. There were ringless couples in bathing suits, sprawled on towels near him. But they goofed around sunning or tossing Frisbees as though Lard was ho-hum normal. Which he probably is out there.
California is a state of perpetual weirdness. They probably have navel ring cults there who picket stores specializing in earrings, carrying signs that say ``SHAME!'' Bet they have outlets as sprawling as the Williamsburg Pottery Factory. Huge places with neon signs 10 stories tall on the roof spelling out RINGORAMA and BODY RING CITY where you can purchase tiny gold stakes for implanting in the navel. So the gold rings can be stacked on them like quoits.
And Californians have seen it all. I'll bet the Ring Lard could have walked onto that beach with his blanket and sported a gold ring as large as a hula hoop in his navel and nobody would have looked up.
Not me. I had a hard time ignoring Lard. I sat on a dune for several minutes trying to figure him out. I rejected my previous notion that he might be a furniture mover. That seemed unlikely. Shifting heavy objects that rub against your torso can be extremely painful for someone with pierced body parts.
Those eye cups on his peepers were hard to figure, too. Anyone investing big bucks in the kind of gold jewelry he was wearing in such unnatural places is surely an exhibitionist . . right? But unless he got more fun imagining the impression he was making rather than seeing it - ``Ooh, ooh, I'll bet they are looking at my beautiful navel rings now'' - the eye covers were hard to explain.
Since returning to Hampton Roads, I've seen nose rings on young men and women. Usually just one in the nose, however. And they didn't look so bad. Now I'm wondering if I haven't been too tough on the Ring Lard. Too snobby. Different strokes for different folks, you know.
Besides, you just can't tell about Californians. Maybe he knows a lot of people living in the L.A. suburbs and made a habit of saying something casual like ``Next time you're in town give me a ring.'' They might have taken him literally. And maybe he was too generous not to wear his gifts. Someplace. Who knows?
Anyway, I concluded I wouldn't fly much if I were him. Wouldn't want to face one of those terminal gateways that beep when metal objects pass through. My guess would be that airport security people aren't as fond of the ringmeister's jewelry as he is. Once he removes his clothing, they probably say things like: ``What happened to you, boy? Belly-flop into a jeweler's window?'' Probably catches unshirted hell.
But only outside California, of course. by CNB