Shotsie Gorman

Good stories very diplomatic on the Bob Roberts scowl. Henk and Bob Roberts Juan wanted to get beat up for while. Days like those are dissappearing. I have a great picture of a tattoo by Bob Roberts I wanted to have done on my toe rith here on my Cell phone...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dn678_2G4UE YouTube - Healdsburg Literary Guild part 2

Sorry I meant "1995" as states in the copyright.

Shotsie Gorman First North American Serial Rights 19 Capstan Road About 545 Words West Milford, NJ 07480 Copyright 1995 Shotsie Gorman 201-728-1150 "HAVE IT, AND THEY SHALL COME" If incredibly beautiful women, dark handsome men, the most delicious meals on the planet, thousands of years of art, excitement, and one of Europe's best tattoo convention does nothing for you, then read no further. This past December, organizer and host Marco Leoni, presented his third annual three day event at the Palazzzo Dei Congressi in the city of Bologna (said "Ba-lone-ya") in northern Italy. "Have it, and they shall come", and in they came, approximately 8000 members of the public, and tattoo artists from around the planet. On the main floor all the tattoo artists, and exhibitors booths were buzzing. On the second floor, Luca, of Body Decorators Tattooing, in Bologna and his cohorts, including Gippi Rondinella, author of Mark Of Cain, from Rome, put together an interesting exhibition of paintings, traditional tattoo equipment, and exploration photos from the South Pacific, India, and Asia. It's too bad the Italians are not hip to the rest of the worlds ideas about health. It seemed like people had two cigarettes in hand. Considering that it was, as cold as a witches tit in a tin bra outside, the overheated, and smoky working conditions were rough on the artists. There were compensations, such as: the hottest looking babes getting tattooed, people who truly appreciated artists, lastly and surely more close to the tattooist heart, they had some cash to spend. 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 because of it's university. 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, it is easy to see why. Everywhere you look there are inspirations for food, sex, and new tattoo designs. Come here next year and you will find every aspect of this town of Bologna friendly. There are arched roofs covering every path; each sidewalk is tiled and lined with shopping of every description, Art is everywhere, making it fun in the worst of weather. Bored? Then there is the ultra-techno Bologna. As seen during the largest motor expo in Europe, held next to the Palazzzo Dei Congressi just days after the Expo. The motor show displays some of the hottest in new motorcars, motorcycles, and half naked models available in the world. Side trips from the Tattoo Expo are plentiful. Nearby is the Ducati motorcycle factory, and one of the larger Harley shops in Europe, called Numero Uno. A great place to shop for Harley stuff marked with an Italian logo. Exciting Italian cities are within quick reach by train. In fifty-five minutes, traveling south, you can be in the city of Florence and visit the great Ufizzi Gallery. To the north, in less than two hours by train lies Venice, and a ride on an Italian version of a "low rider", a customized gondola. Since Gorgio Ursini organized the first tattoo exhibition, during which I represented the East Coast of the US ten years ago in Rome, tattooing has literally exploded. 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. So bring your English to Italian dictionary, or just smile, eat, and say "Ciao Bella".

I enjoyed it emensly. True hearts in the trade. The real heros of the world are good dads. We set the way for our kids by showing them love and support. The rest is icing on the cake. I love the baby poo pooing the Hardy clothes crap! Great stuff well Done! thanks for the Bay area history being and East Coaster for 30 years of my tattoo career it was helpfull. I am happy to be in the turf!

First North American Serial Rights About 1146 Words Copyright 2011 Shotsie Gorman HOUSTON TATTOO CONVENTION 1996 The Astrodome is the world’s first posh air-conditioned sports arena--a true testament to the crass cash available from the oil industry. In its shadow another first was being remembered this January day a twentieth anniversary of the first-ever US Tattoo Convention, This one hosted by Lyle Tuttle and Dave Yerkew. The tattooed crowds were certainly causing a stir in Houston. “You boys in a rock’n’roll band or something?” stuttered out a dumbfounded policeman swarmed by tattooed types shopping in the boot store directly opposite the convention site. Actually, considering what there was to do in Houston in January, a loud fart from one of The Papa Johns Restaurant chain outfits called (about the only place reachable on foot from the hotel) could've caused a stir. Across from us loomed the Astrodome, like this anniversary of first Texas meeting of the inked, has contributed its own important cultural influence. It suddenly felt the two histories have overlapped in some perverse manner. Both surrounded by used car lots and pawnshops. Once the Astrodome’s dome construction was complete and the field was playable, the Athlete’s complained they could not see the ball through the magnification of the sun in the glass dome. The answer was to tint the glass. It worked fine. The ball could be seen--but golly, surprise, cut the sun and the grass dies. Hence the plastic grass ASTRO TURF IS born. It immediately contributed to more shredded knees and damaged backs and deaths in football history, large chemical poisonings of those who made it overseas The high-dollar fans were cool and comfortable, like the Caesars and Romans in their forums before them. By the way “Arena” is the Latin word for the sand that was spread on the floor of the Coliseum to absorb all the blood! It seems that the tattoo growth over the last twenty years has produced its own share of the tinted dark tone as well. Far from it’s secretive small community of tattooers it has turned darker Multiply the growth in commercial large scale tattoo events in the last 20 years and see what you get. I overheard a businessman talking. He had popped into the Sheraton Astrodome hotel with some business clients to have a power lunch unbeknownst to him, smack dab in the middle of the 2oth Anniversary Tattoo Convention and Reunion. On the very day there was a water main break outside the hotel. These two events causing a distinct deterioration in the lackluster personal hygiene of the tattooed and pierced participants. A startling eyeful for our Houston businesman. He glanced around with his mouth agape and exclaimed, “Say, Am I crazy, as he sniffed the air around him, or are we in the basement of the world?” He sort of summed up many of the mixed feelings that people had there. With him, we watched a sea of youthful, cherubic faces sporting slashes of protruding metal, boiled-up burn scars with weak tribal connections, arms, necks, and torsos (mostly exposed)covered with demons composed of garish stripes of subconscious fears and unrecognizable blurs of color. “ Am I crazy, or are we in the basement of the world.” At first I thought I should set him straight. I should give him the ass whipping historical tour of tattooing as an art form. Instead, I laughed out loud. Frankly, I don’t know where the next stop is on the in the elevator of the convention cult or where my beloved art form was headed in the commercial world. While pondering this question, I looked outside the window of the hotel, at a large looming billboard across the highway from it that read: WHO’S IS IT?” DNA TESTING CALL 1-800-DNA-8888 and thought, Maybe all of our collective scars and fears are not so far from the surface, tattooed or not. Or yes we are in Texas. I stood in my 10’X10’ Over priced booth and watched the swarm of humanity go round and round the show, looking for something. All wanted to be looked at and afraid of what everyone will see. On the stage they were shaking and hyperventilating when their wish is finally granted. All eyes on me. Along came the stories of how Enigma, was having his skull drilled and steel bolts screwed in for a later fitting of steel horns. I guess I'd never considered if the envelope of the avant guard would be the blood brain barrier. I wondered aloud if the body manipulators had considered how Astroturf could be added in. Another story came off the assembly line of passers-bys of suffering the pain of a surgical insertion (done in a musty mold ridden hotel room I might add!) of a plastic prosthetic under a flap of skin on his forehead. All of this blood and gouging apparently, so he could frown and form a Tim Curry devil legendary look-alike demon brow. I guess the sewing kits they provide at these hotels have some use after all. Sorry, I guess I am suppose to say “cool dude” and be hip, but I am well more old school and a bit revolted, not by the manipulation of the body in this manner (because that is understandable in the context of ritual but for all the angst, struggle, and suffering of pain merely to portray a trite Hollywood perversion of horror, a demon created for consumer consumption. I think a sad and dangerous interpretation of a powerful metaphor of the human struggle for understanding of what dark forces lie within. Or maybe I just don’t get it like I used to say to my old man. Yes, the entire cult of piercing and tattooing conventions is heading us fast somewhere but I don’t have a fucking clue where. I am sure there are those who could spin logical defenses for such insertions of plastics in both playing fields just to piss off the local parent groups and conservative Christians or to enjoy the felling and damaging of an athlete. Alas, I suspect the youth culture, and cognoscenti will interpret these comments as evidence of my totally un-hip perspective. This road will dead-end sooner than later. In the end I can’t help but wonder what will become of those who have chosen it. I am admittedly confused by my participation in this strange convention cult and by my mixed feelings toward the evolution of it. It was in many ways like a Hollywood horror film, or like a religious one, all of this is after all is said and done a commercial property not some profound statement on the inner life. I was beginning to identify where the real horror was. The well heeled air-conditioned fans of the astrodome watching their prize gladiators being led across the Astroturf of the modern coliseum the rest of us to be manipulated with plastic worlds and six burner stoves their blood splashed across the world for granite counter tops in the new kitchen. All while their souls are ripped to shreds by fear. Eventually I did turn away from the astrodome looked around me. I just felt I wanted to put my arms around some of the younger people parading by, despite their stink , praise their scratchy tattoos, pat them on the back and say it’s all right. But that would be totally uncool…

Great stuff! intimate, unfiltered history and a portrait of af father and friendand artist. This felt good to see...

Back in 1981 I did a tiger tattoo that won an award at that years National Convention. In those days the only magaziines covering tattooing were Easy Rider and nude mens magazines. So a picture of it ends up in OUI magazine. I come to San Francisco on my first visit to get tattooed by Greg Irons at Henry Goldfields Shop on Broadway. I walk in and see Henry call to him, as we had never met. I say Hello I am Shotsie Gorman. You are him he says Wait a minute I have something for you. He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a small object which he throws across the room in my direction. " What the Fuck is this "I say and there on the floor are a stack of cut out pictures from OUI magazine of the tiger I did bound together in rubber bands. "Every asshole sailor that comes through that door has asked for that tattoo and your the fucking pain in the ass that did it!" My first meeting with the great Henry Goldfield!

Grandpa Groovy was a character in his own right. We always sparked together I liked him despite his failings. Glad you like the stpory! Shotsie

Shotsie Gorman First North American Serial Rights 579 word Copyright 2010 Shotsie Gorman MARLBORO MAN An interview with an old school Tattooer Chunks of gold comprised his monogram ring. Dazzling gold surrounded his wrist in a pile of watchband and bracelets. The yellow metal seemed almost as out of place in his mouth as on his knurled hands, tattooed with indecipherably fuzzy blue letters. Each digit's symbol led your eye to the web of thumb and forefinger of his right hand, where the stigmata of a long forgotten commitment read to love Joan forever. If only he'd held onto Joan the way he clutches that cigarette, his life might have been different. Though not necessarily better. Those hands might have been better suited to the simple battered wedding ring of the day laborer or the scarred but unpretentious absence of decoration of a convicted felon. It wasn't until the flash of his smile that I reconsidered. Sparkling gold teeth shone out of his mouth. They lit up his whole face, until a cloud of cynical stories and blue-gray cigarette smoke passed over it. A life of dirty deeds, boonswagles, overcharging drunks, head in trade for tattooing and seductions leapt out of his deep-pocketed blue eyes. I tried to focus and breathe in the billowing smoke, the stinking rancid barbecue in the trash and bleak commentary that poured out him. I wanted him to let out his life to me. Maybe he literally was. Continue the interview rang my mantra. "Well, Jack, after half a century of being in the tattooed skin tattoo trade if you could do it over what would you do differently? How would you have changed it?" A riotous cough sent him doubling over, his body retching in what seemed a desperate, convulsive cry for help. I was suddenly aware of how tight and dark the waiting room was. "Goddamn-- egh! Emphysema," he gagged out. He started up again "Well you know, son, let me tell ya." Jack prefaced every gem of wisdom with this phrase. I heard it over and over. It was his way of slamming you with a two-by-four to get your attention. It made me think at the moment, of the music in "Jaws. "I've been in the tattoo trade for as long as I can remember." He sputtered again, spasming into a long cough. "Are you all right Jack?" "Yeah I'm fantastic." "Ain't Life Grand," done in a 1930's Texas Swing style, twanged from the ceiling speakers-- Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys, offering their ironic commentary here in Arlington, Texas, out of a dark 1990s box. Jack sat up, his right hand tapping the pack of butts in his blue short-sleeve poplin shirt. He tapped, then again, just to be sure they were there. He took the pack out, tapped it on the counter, pushed the bottom corner up, forcing out several cigarettes just enough so the configuration of filters exactly resembled those in the old Marlboro ads. Out slid a butt. He tapped it on the filter side with his indecipherable blue tattooed right hand. He moved so deftly, sliding the pack into his shirt, it seemed one motion to me. I had seen it so many times over the last few hours that I'd become enthralled by the ballet. It was almost a Baryshnikoff move. Again he tapped the pack. He seemed to lose consciousness for the entire period of this dance. He sniffed the butt then lit it so fast I missed it. " Well, you know son, let me tell ya. If I had to do it all over again, I'd've been a preacher."

Hey Deb Thas funny as well. YEah the hALEDON SHOP CAME SHORTLY AFTER THIS PLACE IN UNION CITY NJ. Nice to hear from you. Shotsie

BIRDMAN Or a day in the life of a tattooist in 1978 At 4pm the sun was shinning nearly dead even into the window of the small tattoo shop on Kennedy Boulevard speaking of dead it was located just opposite the car rental that rented the white van to the first unsuccessful bombers of the World Trade Towers. Union City, NJ was not exactly exotic like Bombay nor was it cool like NYC for that matter it didn’t even seem like New Jersey it was more like little Cuba. Run by a soon to be convicted for corruption and extortion Italian wise guy, the not so honorable Mayor Musto. The windows in question, where the sun was about to cook through, were grayish and gritty. Despite the efforts of the proprietor, that’s me by the way, to clean them often. I suspected it was probably from the crematorium just a few blocks up the boulevard. It gave me pause to think of somebody’s grandfather dusted across my window. So I always said “excuse me folks” when I washed it off and wished them a quick trip over the river Styx. Although it could have been the carbon burning traffic on this snake like road, it was constant and as loud as two young Italian wannabe wise guys yakking up stories of hitting and robbing the trains in the transfer station in North Bergin and wanting to trade stolen goods for tattoos. This strip down to Staten Island on the NY side was much later to be the haunted holy grounds of The Sopranos’ Godfather Tony. It’s not what you think, a typical scummy little tattoo shop in a grimy small town in New Jersey. It was a small piece of heaven in 1978 for me. “Clean enough to eat off the floors” I’d say. The shop was only 12 feet across and 25 feet long and it held the universe. From the moment I opened the doors I had so much business I almost couldn’t handle it. I became fast friends with the local Santero, A Santeria Priest for those of you of the white bread persuasion. After that I was gold in the Cuban Community they watched out for me Cooked for me invited me to salsa dances and got tattooed as penance or prayers Santa Barbara, St Lazarus, Cryptic scrawl of Santeria spells all became my tween worlds my bread and butter. I was being taught to speak enough Spanish to ask what color and how much do you want to spend by a young lovely young Cuban woman without dancing legs in a wheel chair who sat with a talking Parakeet on her right shoulder that spoke more Spanish than I could, after four months I quit. Speaking of Spanish speaking birds and other oddities of living in the land of the Mariolettos (Cubans let out of prisons and insane asylums a gift from Castro for the US State Department to give visas too. the Set on rickety boats to America. Those who made the crossing also made their way from Miami FL to Union City NJ. What was I saying? oh yes, I have to pull on your coat about the Birdman. I had a slow day doing a couple of cryptic Santeria tattoos on friends of the local Santero. I was buzzing away on the last one when it started. I had a wall separating the tattoo area from the front and a small security mirror to see who came through the door. I heard this chirping. I was thinking it was a bird found it’s way into my shop. I looked up to the to see him, this guy chirping away. First long chirps with pause then rolling chirps all connected together. He was wearing a cut off yellow windbreaker with out the usual wife beater shirt, and ripped jeans. I called over the wall “I’ll be right with you pal.” He just stuttered out another bird song. Completing the tattoo I was doing, I collected my fee and walked through the door to the front. “So what’s up?” He pivoted, pulling down the jacket zipper turning his naked to the waist and tan lined body to me smelling of High Karate, yelling, he was, “THE BIRDMAN!” To prove it he had it emblazoned across his his back from shoulder to shoulder in eight inch tall Old English letters tattooed, that read, B-I-R-D-N-A-N! I say calmly, “OK Birdman, never acknowledging the eight inch missing M, What can I do for you.” Pointing to a blank spot among the small bird tattoos wallpapering his arm, he said, rattling through his nose. “Well! What do you think? I want a bird tattoo right here.” There were birds the likes of hummingbirds as big as eagles and chickadees larger than crows, no accounting for scale, style, or skill. Although, he was working hard to fill with birds in every open space. Sort of like the driving style of New Jersey drivers if there is a space you fill it. He shows me the picture of a whippoorwill whilst chirping the whippoorwills’ song or so he claimed. I never having seen or heard a whippoorwill took his word for it. During the tattoo he entertained me by singing no less than 50 songs of various birds of North America, all while chewing on sunflower seeds. I didn’t bother putting on the stereo. Someone else came through the door, as I was finishing up the tattoo. Birdman was donning his windbreaker; I strolled to the front to chat up the next client. He passed me singing a sad bird refrain and smiled and whispered passing. “I’m the Birdman…” The new customer and I walk to the work area. I look down to the clients black leather chair and there to my astonishment where Birdman was sitting, was a three inch,golden foil covered, chocolate egg!

BIRDMAN Or a day in the life of a tattooist in 1978 At 4pm the sun was shinning nearly dead even into the window of the small tattoo shop on Kennedy Boulevard speaking of dead it was located just opposite the car rental that rented the white van to the first unsuccessful bombers of the World Trade Towers. Union City, NJ was not exactly exotic like Bombay nor was it cool like NYC for that matter it didn’t even seem like New Jersey it was more like little Cuba. Run by a soon to be convicted for corruption and extortion Italian wise guy, the not so honorable Mayor Musto. The windows in question, where the sun was about to cook through, were grayish and gritty. Despite the efforts of the proprietor, that’s me by the way, to clean them often. I suspected it was probably from the crematorium just a few blocks up the boulevard. It gave me pause to think of somebody’s grandfather dusted across my window. So I always said “excuse me folks” when I washed it off and wished them a quick trip over the river Styx. Although it could have been the carbon burning traffic on this snake like road, it was constant and as loud as two young Italian wannabe wise guys yakking up stories of hitting and robbing the trains in the transfer station in North Bergin and wanting to trade stolen goods for tattoos. This strip down to Staten Island on the NY side was much later to be the haunted holy grounds of The Sopranos’ Godfather Tony. It’s not what you think, a typical scummy little tattoo shop in a grimy small town in New Jersey. It was a small piece of heaven in 1978 for me. “Clean enough to eat off the floors” I’d say. The shop was only 12 feet across and 25 feet long and it held the universe. From the moment I opened the doors I had so much business I almost couldn’t handle it. I became fast friends with the local Santero, A Santeria Priest for those of you of the white bread persuasion. After that I was gold in the Cuban Community they watched out for me Cooked for me invited me to salsa dances and got tattooed as penance or prayers Santa Barbara, St Lazarus, Cryptic scrawl of Santeria spells all became my tween worlds my bread and butter. I was being taught to speak enough Spanish to ask what color and how much do you want to spend by a young lovely young Cuban woman without dancing legs in a wheel chair who sat with a talking Parakeet on her right shoulder that spoke more Spanish than I could, after four months I quit. Speaking of Spanish speaking birds and other oddities of living in the land of the Mariolettos (Cubans let out of prisons and insane asylums a gift from Castro for the US State Department to give visas too. the Set on rickety boats to America. Those who made the crossing also made their way from Miami FL to Union City NJ. What was I saying? oh yes, I have to pull on your coat about the Birdman. I had a slow day doing a couple of cryptic Santeria tattoos on friends of the local Santero. I was buzzing away on the last one when it started. I had a wall separating the tattoo area from the front and a small security mirror to see who came through the door. I heard this chirping. I was thinking it was a bird found it’s way into my shop. I looked up to the to see him, this guy chirping away. First long chirps with pause then rolling chirps all connected together. He was wearing a cut off yellow windbreaker with out the usual wife beater shirt, and ripped jeans. I called over the wall “I’ll be right with you pal.” He just stuttered out another bird song. Completing the tattoo I was doing, I collected my fee and walked through the door to the front. “So what’s up?” He pivoted, pulling down the jacket zipper turning his naked to the waist and tan lined body to me smelling of High Karate, yelling, he was, “THE BIRDMAN!” To prove it he had it emblazoned across his his back from shoulder to shoulder in eight inch tall Old English letters tattooed, that read, B-I-R-D-N-A-N! I say calmly, “OK Birdman, never acknowledging the eight inch missing M, What can I do for you.” Pointing to a blank spot among the small bird tattoos wallpapering his arm, he said, rattling through his nose. “Well! What do you think? I want a bird tattoo right here.” There were birds the likes of hummingbirds as big as eagles and chickadees larger than crows, no accounting for scale, style, or skill. Although, he was working hard to fill with birds in every open space. Sort of like the driving style of New Jersey drivers if there is a space you fill it. He shows me the picture of a whippoorwill whilst chirping the whippoorwills’ song or so he claimed. I never having seen or heard a whippoorwill took his word for it. During the tattoo he entertained me by singing no less than 50 songs of various birds of North America, all while chewing on sunflower seeds. I didn’t bother putting on the stereo. Someone else came through the door, as I was finishing up the tattoo. Birdman was donning his windbreaker; I strolled to the front to chat up the next client. He passed me singing a sad bird refrain and smiled and whispered passing. “I’m the Birdman…” The new customer and I walk to the work area. I look down to the clients black leather chair and there to my astonishment where Birdman was sitting, was a three inch,golden foil covered, chocolate egg!