Shotsie Gorman

I am in my 32 year as well Deb what the Fuck? Didn't think my back would hold out all this time! Haa still slingin with the best of them A huge Kudo for you for sticking and keeping it real!

Best bring your snow shoes!

http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=1826531228944&set=a.1716927888929.2097427.1410202637&pid=2094229&id=1410202637 People coming to me for portraits as dead people?

I shant do that --you first! If your gonna ask us to spill the beans then your plate has to be dirty Shotsie

“THE SAD THING ABOUT THIS WORLD IS; EVERYBODY HAS THEIR REASONS” August Renior “Some people put the best inside. Some people put the best outside “ Bob Marley I’m sure he had many of them, I do People do -- have lots of them. Secret ones that destroy others like stealth bombs of desire. After the scatological shrapnel slices you apart They line their hearts, as armor. The way you’d put gray flannel pants in the winter, red wool over your eyes, or sing an old Bob Wills tune. “Can’t pull it over my eyes” he’d say, before she smoked him. Lit up and burned like and old butt he found weeks later under a small stack of love letters piled up to burn for heat while living on the street. Everybody has them. Often they spread them thickly like a protective coating of lard over their lives. Even though tallow can be carved into fine art, it has to be left in the dark and cool. A place like your subconscious basement apartment. Seductive they are, once neatly spread to catch the flies and well supported by Nietzsche, Shoppenouer or Jesus. You pull them in. Like knowing the right card in a three card Monte game. Of course they can be slid to you via higher levels of consciousness by Swami Snatchenyoudownah’s tantric yogic practice. Taoists say the sage butcher never has to sharpen the blade while crudely slicing - often into anyone near by. “Look you just gotta’ get it! It’s my destiny to move on now. I have to get a new shape, a new karma, a new lover with a better car, a new line at the five and dime” Many times reasons are made like fine Chinese papercuts. You become so mesmerized by the art- you don’t ever see the message coming until it’s scissors slice through your open eyes. You know, the way you would cut paper for your kitchen drawers. I mean, they always starting out bright yellow with the idea of keeping those things neat and available for your everyday use. Every piece measured carefully until the third drawer where you stop measuring. Reasons build up like clutter. The most expensive clutter, paid for with the pain you have in your now gashed heart. Breakdowns in a sobbing fetal mass despite the hot shower. When you are alone and all of it comes. Drawers get stuck. Only the same one opens again and again. “Don’t fixate she said ! Don’t obsess!” Small swarms of blackened shadows buzz round at three am. More like 3:33 blinking red now. Their like assholes. Everybody has em. Reasons are piled up like cigarettes along the curb at the stop light. Like the lint that forms in your pockets and the dust mites settling from nowhere on everything you hold dear. The tattoo marks you collect on your body It’s a changing world See it change. Walking away, she said. “I am sorry you don’t get it--it’s nothing personal. I mean if you were me you would understand I had to go! Things just got out of hand. I had a new job offer, friend, lover, a chance to get all new clutter and form new horizons-- bigger ones with brighter linings--I--I have to go! Wasn’t like I wanted to be disloyal, dishonest or lack character. Those ideas are old, like you-- piled up in a back alley’s in the lower Eastside. It’s not just me-- I know you had your own! Just because you called them honor and loyalty high and mighty bullshit. Next, you’ll be telling me why it’s called love and forgiveness . Like you have some insight as to the influence you have in--my--world. It is mine-- you know.” She said Her reasons; poured out like so much paper toweling falling out of an over stuffed public toilet trash can that no one ever picks up. No one ever picks them up. Because they have their reasons.

Come on up and have a good time at the Blue lake Casino! http://www.sotattooed.com/ezine/2011/01/13/incredible-shotsie-gorman-at-the-2nd-annual-valentines-tattoo-expo-in-humbolt-county/

MEASURING CUP I considered that, life is measured. Like in a sweet recipe. One teaspoon of cinnamon, after another. Not the rough bark to be rubbed over a small toothed grader, But more like the soft pungent powder. In the smell I have seen and know, from my travels there are Grenadian women, hunched over rolling wet bark into small cigars. Their sweaty palms turning rusty red. Hear them gossip on passion, or lack of it. Soulfully singing songs from childhood. Bountiful breasts held in flowered material. Spending their days hewing cinnamon cigars stuffed into large burlap bags filled to near bursting, like their skirts. Coarse brown bags stacked to ceiling in a huge dusty red warehouse go off into infinity behind them. Nothing deters their hands. More cinnamon than could flavor every dish ever served by all mankind. Still they work in a red fever. In their day, is the architecture of madness. Like Sisyphus’ toil, and immense passion. An abundant joy of life. Measured, one level tablespoon at a time. Over and over. http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3279/2920018862_cab1fc1b3d.jpg%3Fv%3D0&imgrefurl=http://flickr.com/photos/29196838%40N00/2920018862/&usg=__s88bzLU-m_NiBnCutwojlS7ULvE=&h=500&w=333&sz=128&hl=en&start=140&zoom=1&tbnid=jXPiC98eLZuc_M:&tbnh=159&tbnw=97&ei=I18-Tb7cC5P2tgPuqNzDBQ&prev=/images%3Fq%3DCinnamon%2Bin%2BGrenada%26hl%3Den%26c lient%3Dsafari%26rls%3Den%26biw%3D1085%26bih%3D823 %26tbs%3Disch:10%2C5880&itbs=1&iact=rc&dur=481&oei=EF8-TYfAGpK-sAP5wN36BA&esq=11&page=9&ndsp=18&ved=1t:429,r:10,s:140&tx=55&ty=113&biw=1085&bih=823

La Dolce Vita The egg yolk in my dish looks so orange to me, almost bloody, I can't help but wonder how many tattoo travelers pass though this place and do not notice how rich in color it all is. I stare at it, flopped over the darkest green asparagus I have seen in a long time. The smell of aged parmesan cheese wafts through my nostrils; I am in heaven. As I eat, I consider the white of the egg is almost as pure a color as that of the tiles that cover the walls and floor of the Restaurant Diana--a stark yet warm eatery that sits midway between the tattoo expo site and the town center on the Via Independenza, the main thoroughfare and traffic filled artery that courses with the transient life of Bologna (Pronounced "Ba-lone-ya"). Lunch time in Italy starts at 1:00 PM and runs through until 3:00 PM. The Italians take their tattooing, family, friendships, and eating time very seriously, and everything closes during lunch time except the trattorias (Small informal family style restaurants) and the restorantes (Fine and expensive ones). I fill my stomach, then follow the shop lined Independenza south. It leads me to the heart and soul of Bologna--the Piazza Maggiore, saddled by the Piazza Nettuno, two large open squares that dominate the cultural life of the place. They are near a football field in size. Here people gather all day, but incredibly, on Sunday mornings I have witnessed it filled to capacity. People hug and kiss, talk of life, laugh and cry and talk some more. Yes they talk to each other, an idea of community long since lost to America. We did at one point in history have our downtown areas where families would shop, walk, and talk of life, where politicos would converse on soap boxes and rant of government corruption and where small local tattoo shops would be open. We no longer have the human contact here. We have been emotionally nullified by the mall. That is why I think so many of us that travel to tattoo events around the globe: miss the real color. I guess the closest thing America has to the piazza now is the internet, albeit sterilized from human physical contact. Even our major tattoo events have been increasingly distant in human terms, and less of a feeling of camaraderie exists now among the attendees than in the past. They have become, it seems, no more than a moving mall of tattoo merchandise. That feeling of tattoo family could be rekindled for you if you attend the next Expo here in Bologna. I certainly felt it in attendance at the third annual 1995 Tattoo Expo. For three days in December people and artists converge on the Palazzzo Dei Congressi. This spanking new building of twenty years houses one of Europe's best tattoo conventions. Its interior reflective of grand '70s expectations. It has sloping white ceilings and a huge, open, and warm-toned foyer that affords a view of the whole show as you walk in. My only real complaint as a participant in the Expo is that, while the Italians have held onto more human traditions than we, they are not hip to our ideas about health. People all seem to have two cigarettes in their hands. Not much ventilation was to be had either, making the overheated working conditions a bit rough on the eyes throat and lungs. Through the billows of smoke, the mass of people flashed their pictures and talked a lot while hugging and kissing. The crowd pushed in, and filled every possible inch of space in the hall. The color of life and tattooing in Italy could be seen everywhere you looked. Event organizer and host Marco Leoni, a well known figure for the past eleven years at American conventions, who looks suspiciously like the portrait of Caravaggio, the Venetian painter whose face dominates the front of the 100,000 Lira bill. (about $63 US) is running, the night before the event, in true entrepreneurial fashion. Buzzing around waving his hands in the air, barking Italian curses. While the floors of the Pilazzo Dei Congressi are being covered with gray felt to resist the onslaught of 8000 members of the public that cram into the show in its three-day run, the booths for the tattoo artists and exhibitors are being assembled. On the second floor, Luca, of Body Decorators Tattooing, in Bologna and his cohorts, including Gippi Rondinella, author of Mark Of Cain, from Rome, are putting together an interesting exhibition of tattooist paintings, traditional tattoo materials, and exploration photos from the South Pacific, India, and Asia. I can sense there is plenty of excitement in the Palzzo Dei Congressi and the old town tonight for this year's Expo. Posters, the main method of youth communication in Italy, are plastered on every available space, shouting out Expo! The small town is vibrating with the coming Christmas holiday, the streets are lit up with all sorts of fanciful decorations. To be sure, before and after the Tattoo Expo, there will be a feast for the eye and plenty of things to do. This predominantly medieval city of Bologna, was in the 13th century one of the ten largest cities in Europe. It was then called Bologna "La Dotta," the learned. Its university to this day considered to be the leading institution on European law. At the mouth of the main drag the, Via Independenza, or Street Independence, so named because of Bologna's ability to remain independent from its much wealthier and stronger neighbors, such as Florence, sits the vast open square that is the Piazza Nettuno. Just to the right of the Piazza Maggiorie, or Major Square. The physical center of the city and its activity, as it must have been in Roman times. It is now surrounded by buildings that include, at the south end a grand gothic structure called the Basilica Di San Pietro, and the palace of the notaries, including The Palzzo Bianchi, the first permanent site of the university; The Palazzo Del Podesta, with it's Medieval bell tower, and the soaring Gothic interior of the Basilica di San Pietro. Are you looking to really understand the meaning of gothic design for your art? Well, here it is. All together they create an awe-inspiring scene. Towering in the first square, the Piazza Neptuno you can find the fountain statue that commemorates it's name. The Neptune Fountain, built and designed by a Florentine based Artist named Giambologna. Neptune is in grand scale and its base has bronze mermaids unabashedly squirting water from their breasts into the pool below. Everywhere you look there are inspirations for new tattoo designs, the place is alive with art. Another amazing aspect of this walking town of Bologna are the porticoes that cover every sidewalk. Arched roofs cover every path; each sidewalk is tiled and lined with shopping of every description, from the finest of shoes and leather to dazzling jewelry shops, making it pleasant even in the worst of wet weather. When you come here next year, don't miss the "Due Torri," Two Towers. Bologna has its own version of the leaning tower, except their are two and both are leaning toward each other in a potential Italian embrace. The one that was built in 1109 by the Aisinelli family is available to climb and provides a breathtaking view of the city and surrounding hills. One thing you need not concern yourself with in Italy is food. Since the 13th century Bologna has also been called" La Grassa," or "the fat." Consider that lasagna, tortelloni, tortelline, and spaghetti la Bolognese, really ragu, or meat sauce and of course bologna (pronounced "Ba-lone-ee"), better known in Italy as mortadella, were all invented here. Bologna is considered by many in the world the gastronomic capital of Italy. Most folks don't go out to eat until after 8:00 PM so there is no need to fret when coming out of the show at 11:00 PM. Directly opposite the congresso is the Pizza Pino a monstrous pizza and pasta joint. There will be plenty of food to choose from. I have twelve more pounds on to prove it. Excursions to some of the greatest Italian cities are also within easy reach by train. Access to the world's greatest collections of art are less than two hours away. In fifty- five minutes you can be in Florence and visit the Ufizzi Gallery, filled with high Renaissance art, including Botticelle's "Birth of Venus" (or "Venus on a half shell" as Americans call her). To the north in less than two hours by train lies Venice, and the gondola ride of your life. Tattooing has exploded in here the past ten years since Gorgio Ursini organized the first tattoo exhibition in Rome. As a result there are tattoo shops in every major city in Italy. All of the artists are happy to meet and share ideas with foreign travelers. Lest we forget where Machiavelli was born and think the tattoo community here is in some fairy tale place, let's say it is not without its color wars. There is a contentious international school of tattooing just getting started in Florence. With good reason, this is causing a major rift in the tattoo scene. Perhaps the time is right for an APT extension in Europe. Certainly tattooing cannot continue to be unorganized in the world and flourish. My advice is don't miss Tattoo Expo next year. And while you are in between the tattoo expo events, look up from your plate of eggs and see the beauty and grace of Italy. There is an old saying: "Every artist steals his ideas, but the sign of a great artist is whom he steals from." Here you can steal from the best. The End

Bad Excuses THE FOLLOWING IS A PARTIAL LIST OF ACTUAL WRITTEN EXCUSES GIVEN TO TEACHERS IN THE ALBURQUERQUE PUBLIC SCHOOL SYSTEM BY PARENTS OF STUDENTS 1. Dear School: Please excuse John from being absent on Jan. 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, and also 33. 2. Please excuse Dianne from being absent yesterday. She was in bed with gramps. 3. Please excuse Johnnie for being. It was his father's fault. 4. Chris will not be in school because he has an acre in his side. 5. John has been absent because he had two teeth taken off his face. 6. Excuse Gloria. She has been under the doctor. 7. Lillie was absent from school yesterday because she had a going >over. 8. My son is under the doctor's care and should not take fizical ed. Please execute him. 9. Carlos was absent yesterday because he was playing football. He was hit in the growing part. 10. My daughter was absent yesterday because she was tired. She spent this weekend with the Marines. 11. Please excuse Joyce from P.E. for a few days. Yesterday she fell off a tree and misplaced her hip. 12. Please excuse Ray Friday from school. He has very loose vowels. 13. Maryann was absent Dec. 11-16, because she had a fever, sore throat, headache, and upset stomach. Her sister was also sick, fever and sorethroat, her brother had a low-grade fever. There must be the flu going around, her father even got hot last night. 14. Please excuse Blanche from jim today. She is administrating. 15. George was absent yesterday because he had a stomach. 16. Ralph was absent yesterday because he had a sore trout. 17. Please excuse Sara for being absent. She was sick and I had her shot. 18. Please excuse Lupe. She is having problems with her ovals. 19. Please excuse Pedro from being absent yesterday. He had diah(*crossed out*), diahoah(*crossed out*), dyah(*crossed out*) the shits.

I have found everyone responds so differently to treat and after care. It is relative to who did the work for sure. Nice even placement of pigment makes for a smooth healing tattoo. I have for the last 10 years suggested to people they use a healing slave called super slave specifically "Calendula." It's a flower suspended in bees wax very little olive oil. It's miraculous large scaled pieces healed in three days! About the Super Salve Company Most non tattooers don't pick away at their tattoos nor experimewnt with Cocoa buter or other crap and most customers left to their own methods will screw withe the tattoo until there is a healing issue. There is so little customer knowledge/consumer knowledge in the tattoo world hence the survival of so many sctratchers in the community. Some folks are just not up to par on their immune systems and need the addition of some sort of help. Well that's my Two cents! Shotsie Gorman 32 years tattooing

Thanks I am glad it grabbed you it is one of my favorites!

SPOOKY What I loved, really was my memory of him. Francis, was my mothers youngest brother. But reflecting now I realize I knew Butch more by the artifacts of his life. My feelings were almost archeological After twenty years of separation As the facts of his death were related to me- by his sister sobbing over a crackling phone connection. “The prison lost his ashes in transit.” missing the irony, she wept. “It was UPS they said, those bastards!” bruised out on the static connection Butchy’s ashes to be dusted over the race track like his life lost in transit. Spooky, Casper the Ghost’s comic, bad boy other self-was India ink etched into his right bicep. First e mano by an old South Paterson Gumba Who owed Butch a gambling debt Settled as he carved him a Spooky tattoo. Jabbed in by three sewing needles tied together with thread one poke at a time. “Fuck you!” Butch said each time keeping the rhythm of the blood beaded jabs. Spooky was to be sharpened black and reshaped, It’s fedora cocked off kilter by me. In an attempt to revisit our family connection. Buzzing my heavy tattoo machines in the dim light of a sleazy Florida pool hall and beer joint. Listening to do-wop. Watching the blood drop. I dreamed in the still of that night splashed with his red Neapolitan feverish with the knowledge that it ran in my veins. Slurred me to sleep with tears for his suffering. Kneeling before the image of him Impaled on the x of his life And his faux tortoise shell hair brush, left behind, filled with stands of brillcreamed black hair and dandruff. Sitting on his high boy blond dresser with the loose change of his life spilling out Like an offering below the spooky plaster Jesus head with the concave eyes that followed my every move. END Let me know what you think!