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Shotsie Gorman

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  1. Shotsie Gorman
    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
  2. Shotsie Gorman
    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."
  3. Shotsie Gorman
    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".
  4. Shotsie Gorman
    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!
  5. Shotsie Gorman
    Take a chance no one will think your not hip and cool if you watch a poetry film. It's not your third grade teachers longfellow dudes it's hard hitting short stories in effect . Much to be suprised by. Funny and moving a rollercoaster ride of emotions. I jhave been writing and performing in Prisons and kids at rick venues as well as highschools and cafes around the US. My work won a second place in the 1998 Allen Ginsberg PRize. Take a shot there will be no POETRY COOTIES I PROMISE!
    SHotsie
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