Resume/ Bio

It all begins with the first witness. The first time you see it, a feeling turns on inside and all it says is “yeah man! That’s it”. But that was not the whole enchilada, no way. Those lessons came later, but it was the mark of those on the way. It was the initiation into the unknown but that was all a crock a shit wasn’t it? I think I knew right from the start, from that first inclination of cool, from that first thought of its possibility, it was gonna take me on the ride of my life.
I saw my first tattoo on Jose Galvez, my Cousin Elvira’s husband when they came to live with our family in Brooklyn in the early 70’s. I was about 10 maybe 11 at the time and still making my way through the new urban environment. Me the only child being of a First Generation American Family with no kind of guidance of American customs or street rules.
Life would defiantly be a learning experience.
Growing up on Flatbush Ave Brooklyn, I had witnessed glimpses of tattoos. They seemed more like mirages. I was constantly in a tug of war within the realm of my families taboos and misunderstanding and the want to explore into the world that they were trying so hard to protect me from. It was a while later when I abandoned home for the” Street Life” did all those abstract glimpses become clear, yet still not accessible, still not in my reach only in my vision.
Joe’s tattoo was an Indian chief hand done, I believe. I remember that the tattoo was a very well picked one and had no color, or it might have had somecolor that was sun faded. To me it was badass. The coolest thing in the world and he was cool for wearing it. I was band from bothering him after a while I became a pest. It always sits in my memory. Since then I’ve tattooed my younger cousins Emil, Joe’s second son. It’s funny how things come full circle.
As time went on, I was without a doubt drawn quickly to the Flatbush night world. I learned how the neighborhood ran. I got to see its hierchies, the Mobsters, the Fences, The Street Hustlers, The Junkies, The Drug Dealers and of course the Prostitutes. All thru this world of wise guys hustlers and thieves there where tattoos. All the bad assess had em, hell even some of the fucking dumbest fools had em. The night started becoming a gallery of lights, fast action, police sirens, and tattoos and then to top it off a little Mary Jane. She only helped to intensify and bring street clarity to abstract consepts that where just inert. It was just sitting there in the back of my brain waiting to be fucking set free. Fundamentals that lied beneath the surface of what seemed to be the American Dream in the sunlight, Turned to corruption and underhandedness when the moon came out. I remember it was a dark truth that wasn’t acknowledged by the old folks. They all refused to acknowledge the fact that the youth had embraced their worst nightmare like a fucking swarm of Locust, and when down came the night, all the little vampires hit the streets and it was chaos. I remember when people began locking their doors on 22nd street in Brooklyn and all thru the rest of the neighbourhood. Like a tidal wave of culture in came the Puerto Ricans, the Mexicans, the Blacks, the Albanians the Russians and a rush of other cultures. They came and infiltrated Paradise in White Brooklyn America. W all quickly became the scapegoats for what was always present, what always existed there. This corruption could never have come from home “No way Jose”. In the end most sold there homes, abandoned their birthplaces and moved to other paradises.

Felony shoes and a black oversized hood ,2-week-old Levi’s. It was summer. The 4th of July 1976 Bicentennial Year didn’t have much cash. The heat was on. For those of you that are not hip to old Brooklyn street lingo. Felony shoes were Pro Keds or Converse. High tops, Low cuts all the same. Middle class style. Cops hated them. There where all these urbanmyths about which made ya run faster which where better on ice, which where better to get away from the cops the shit ya make up as a child in a concrete reality.
By this time, my Mom had enough and my family promptly moved me to Kensington or Boro Park. My mom tried to save me from the misdeads of Flatbush Avennue. Little did she know, that it was the same shit, more gangs’ a lot more heat a lot more action you could imagine? Always at night, I became a true child of the night.
I ended up in a gang with a bunch of lovable misfits that consisted of every stray that the neighborhood produced. On Flatbush, the older guys had the tats. All of a sudden, I began to run into kids my own age with many tattoos. Names began to surface and the vail of secrecy began slowly unravelling itself for me. The first name I heard was Tony Polito, I had a bud Named Ronald Wood, like the Rolling Stone dude. He was nicknamed Woody like the woodpecker. He showed up the night before with a brand new Tony Polito. Of course, with a W.W.P. tattooed and his name in Polito script. The color was amazing. It fit not only in his look, but also to his soul. I witnessed the tranformation. I saw what it could do. That tattoo made Woods a hero. In addition, even though none of us had a new one or any at all we all celebrated his tattoo. We could all feel the magic that goes along with comrades even those in rags when one has gotten the chance it was like welcoming a hero home.
Soon other names like Coney Island Feddy, Tom DeVita, and the Moscowitz Brothers began to pass thru the scene. It was a proud thing to get a tattoo, considering that at the time tattooing was totaly ilegal in the 5 boroughs of NYC. Moreover, no one under 18 with a wink of an eye was supposed to get a tattoo. Plus, the adventure into another neighbourhood, most of the time, not well, the most desierable locations. I still had not made the venture into the tattoo abyss I was big enough but still to young and besideds at that time my Ma was having enough trouble with me. It was bad enough when the little shit I was compulsivly drawing on my hands and fingers begun to manifest into home pocked jobs that Ma was catchin an eye off. There were also the horror stories that went along with the mystery. Stories from kids getting penis’ tattooed on there faces, to just getting your ass kicked by an angry tattoo artist for being under age and wasting his time.
The summer was and still is the time for tattoos. Everyone who was cool at the time ,in the eyes of a kid, every hoodlum, and junkie, runaway had a tattoo and was out there sporting their shit. All the good fellas from the candy store still sporting greased back DA’s with their sleeves rolled up and a pack of Marlboros, or pack of Luckies stashed neatly in the fold. On the handball courts, on the Bacchii Ball courts the old cushiness had tattoos. I remember tatts on many of the old service men down on that Bacchi court. I can still see the Old Korean War Vets, throwing the Bacchii tattoos to see in the heat of the August sun. I would say, they sure where big with the WW2 Vets and the Old Merchant sailors. All sporting faded yet still visible classic tattoos from ports around the world. You could tell a Polito pinup from across the street. His color was amazing and with the guys in my click he was the man.

I made a great deal of realizations even in my smoke hazed low life summer exsistance. A tattoo was a step into a whole other realm of cool. It was a symbol of the bravery of the urban warrior. The symbol to the other bad asses that you were down. At least that was how it felt for a 15 year old kid that day dreamed sometimes more than I should have, but believed in the fantasy that somewhere in the hustle of the city, out there where the reputation could be made and that rep could transform you into something different. Somehow, if you held on with all your passion, tooth and nail, blood on blood. You could be spared for a while from becoming that old man with the bland grey expression on his face. An expression of utter destitution of soul, we kids were forced to face every day in world full of disappointments and broken dreams. Most of the kids I knew lived on that side of the hood. The tattoo was the middle class medal of honor. It was there forever and no one could take that away. Not the landlord, some other gang, or the cops. Your tattoo was yours all the way. That night ended like most. I will always remember till this very day the pride in Woodys face. In addition, the sturing in my heart that said, that could be me man that could be me.