Another great one gone, alas.

Baseball Legend Willie Mays Passes Away at 93
The San Francisco Giants announced that baseball legend and Hall of Famer Willie Mays passed away peacefully this afternoon at 93. Known for his exceptional skills and enduring legacy, Mays leaves behind an indelible mark on the sport and the Giants organization.

Willie Howard Mays Jr. was born in Westfield, Alabama, on May 6, 1931. From an early age, Mays displayed extraordinary athletic talent, excelling in baseball during high school. His prowess on the field caught the attention of the New York Giants, who signed him in 1950.

Mays made his major league debut in 1951, quickly becoming a standout player. Known as “The Say Hey Kid,” Mays captivated fans with his remarkable defensive skills, powerful hitting, and base-running prowess. His over-the-shoulder catch in the 1954 World Series remains one of the most iconic moments in baseball history.

You’ve all seen the famous Mays “basket catch”—as technically-incorrect a way of fielding a baseball as ever there was, by the by; many’s the coach that would have been driven to apoplectic fits by it over the course of Willie’s baseball lifetime—a thousand and one times over the years, we all have. But that ain’t gonna dissuade me from running it here one mo’ time ag’in, as Jimi Hendrix said.

24 times an All Star, 12 Golden Gloves, 660 career dingers, twice an NLMVP. Say what you will about Willie Mays, but one thing’s for sure and certain: you’d never have seen the Say-Hey Kid taking a knee during the national anthem, not even once you wouldn’t have. in fact, I strongly suspect Mays would have been more than  happy to reach over and smack benchwarming shitheels like Bawlin’ Copperdink upside his empty haid for daring to do such an outlandish thing right in front of him. Another heartwarming vid, from Willie Mays’s home field in Allybammer.

May God forever bless and keep you, Willie Mays.

I was deeply saddened to learn of the passing of my friend of 30-35 years’ standing, tattoo artist nonpareil Randy Herring, who worked for a good many of those years out of the venerable Skin Art tattoo shop, cpl-three doors down from Tony’s Ice Cream parlor on Franklin Blvd in Gastonia. Randy died in a terrible car crash on Saturday evening.

Randy did at least half of my 20-some-odd tattoos, and the overwhelming majority of the ones I love best. His nickname was Ol’ Heavy Hand, and I can attest to its absolute and excruciating veracity. Basically, there are two schools of thought among tattoo artists: 1) pound that ink in deep, hard, and slow, or 2) use a feather-light touch. If there’s a happy medium between them, I never have run across it in four decades-plus of going under the needle.

The debate betwixt the two approaches involves which of them will allow the piece to retain its appearance longer. The lines are going to spread a little no matter what, so the goal is to have the colors hold their brightness and integrity as long as possible, see. The light-touch contingent relies on something a dermatologist’s nurse gf of mine once told me: contrary to popular assumption, the tattoo doesn’t fade over time and depending on exposure to the sun, the skin itself does.

On the one hand, then, all the dig-deep work Randy did on me has held up extremely well. On the other hand, I have one (1) piece from a light-touch advocate, Colin LaRocque, and it has too, so who the hell knows?

Colin’s work is on my left forearm, a rendition of Sailor Jerry’s classic “Venomous Maximus” traditional-style flash: a cartoon cobra rampant, sporting clownishly-outsized fangs, tongue, and google-moogly eyes, with old-school crossbones spread like a set of wings behind his head. The piece is positioned so that most of Venomous’s hood and head cover what is known in the tattooist’s trade as “The Ditch”—a particularly tender patch of fleshly real estate that had me dreading the pain I anticipated when Colin passed the gun over it (hell no, I wasn’t watching him work; salty-dog tattooees wouldn’t dream of succumbing to such a greenhorn temptation).

But nope, not a bit of it. Fact is, I hardly noticed Colin digging around in The Ditch region at all, and the piece still looks nice despite many years of being beaten half to death by Trucker’s Tan every summer.

Now, immediately above Venomous Max is Randy’s variation on the hallowed Sacred Heart design, which Randy custom-converted into a Sacred Piston just pour moi. A stray gob of Pennzoil drips from the bottom of the Sacred Connecting Rod onto the tippy-top of VM’s head, not quite making it all the down into The Ditch proper.

Nevertheless, I almost cried like a little girl when Ol’ Heavy Hands got to pounding that one into me with the 14-needle Magnum shader. No, it wasn’t The Ditch, but it was damned well close enough.YEEEOWTCH!

Once I’d gotten to know him, Randy liked to josh me when I was in the chair and under the gun or just hanging around the shop shooting the breeze with him and the rest of the Skin Art crew (which I used to do frequently) that the only reason he ever got into tattooing at all was because he really enjoyed hurting people. If he’d told me that after the first time he inked me, I’d have taken him at his word.

But by then I knew the man better than that. A little-known fact among non-tattooed people is the powerful bond forged between artist and human canvas, particularly those who become regular customers. This bond is something a truly good tattooist will insist upon, as opposed to those fad-factory hacks derided by their betters in the trade as “scratchers.”

When you think about it, it’s almost inevitable: tattooing, at its highest level, is a profoundly personal, even intimate experience for both customer and artist. You’re in the chair for hours and hours, feeling those needles drill into you painfully, chit-chatting all the while, alternating between him telling you his life story and you telling him yours.

Ideally, the best tattooists try to nurture that bond and help it to grow and expand to its fullest potential; as every one of them I’ve known well has told me, the better they understand who you really are and what brought you to them in the first place, the better-quality work they’ll be able to do on/for you, and the more satisfied you’re going to be in the long run. Unlike any other commercial enterprise, good tattooing is a collaboration, not a simple exchange of money for services rendered. That’s what elevates top-shelf tattooing to the level of bona fide, upper-case Art.

And exactly like my old H-D shop boss Goose, Randy—despite his fondness for pretending to be a grouchy, grumpy old fart with noobs, Normies, and looky-loos—was a true master at fostering that critical bond with dedicated victims like myself. Trust me, he was nothing of the sort (also like Goose). Always quick with a horrible joke, a warm smile, or a raucous guffaw, Randy was the best imaginable example of his craft, a real credit to the profession.

He was renowned for his eagerness to take in talented youngsters for apprenticeship; nearly all the best tattooists in the area, up to and including one of the most talented tattooists currently extant, my friend Rodney Raines, bear the Herring stamp on themselves and their work.

Twenty or so years ago, Randy got religion and became a devout, sincere Christian. Every Monday night he took to the lanes with his Christian bowling team to compete in a local Gastonia league. Over the years, he repeatedly invited me to come out and bowl with ‘em sometime, which I never did get around to doing despite the best of intentions. Alas, to my eternal regret, now I never will.

The above are but a few of many more great stories I have about the man; our long, close relationship both in the tattoo shop and outside of it enriched my life, to a degree I can’t even begin to calculate or describe. He was a good man, a great tattooist, and a cherished friend. So rest ye well, Randy Herring. May the good Lord accept you into the warmth of his loving embrace, your unchainable spirit be forever at ease.

Update! After much poking and digging around the last two days, the obits are finally starting to show up.

Randy Herring Obituary, Death:
The vibrant city of Gastonia, N.C is shrouded in sorrow as news of Randy Herring’s tragic passing spreads throughout the community. As the owner and artist of Skin Art Tattoo at Living Arts, Randy’s sudden and untimely death in a deadly car accident has left friends, family, and patrons reeling with shock and grief.

Randy was not merely a tattoo artist; he was a creative force whose talent, passion, and kindness touched the lives of all who had the privilege of crossing paths with him. As we come together to mourn his loss, we also celebrate the indelible mark Randy left on the world through his artistry and spirit.

“Last night, my dear friend and iconic tattoo artist lost his life in a terrible car accident. Randy Herring was a passionate human being who mentored many artists into greatness. He was also my student for many years. I am honored to have his skin art on my body. My heart aches for his family and friends. He will be sorely missed by an army of people whose lives he touched. Rest in peace ‘Ole Heavy Hands! May you rejoice in heaven with our brother Piotr Kopytek.”

A Master of the Craft
Randy Herring was more than just a tattoo artist; he was a master of his craft. His journey in the world of tattooing began with a passion for art and self-expression, which he honed over the years through dedication and hard work. As the owner of Skin Art Tattoo, Randy’s studio became a sanctuary for creativity, where clients entrusted him with their most personal stories and visions. With each stroke of his needle, Randy transformed skin into living art, leaving behind a legacy of beauty and expression that will endure for generations to come.

A Beacon of Creativity
Randy’s artistry extended far beyond the confines of his studio; it was a reflection of his boundless imagination and love for the craft. Whether he was creating intricate designs inspired by nature, mythology, or pop culture, Randy approached each piece with meticulous attention to detail and a deep reverence for the art form. His passion for tattooing was infectious, inspiring countless aspiring artists to pursue their creative endeavors with courage and conviction.

A-Pillar of the Community
Beyond his role as a tattoo artist, Randy was a beloved figure in the Gastonia community. His warm smile and generous spirit endeared him to all who knew him, and his studio served as a gathering place for artists, musicians, and free spirits alike. Randy’s commitment to his craft was matched only by his dedication to supporting local artists and small businesses, making him a cherished friend and ally to many.

Although they might seem to be pouring on the hyperbole pretty thick and heavy here, I assure you that such is not the case. Every word is perfectly true and accurate, if somewhat thin on the details, which I’d say is pretty dang good for a crusty old tattoo-slinging reprobate. Original-article link is here, albeit paywalled. I 12 Foot Ladder’d it, but can’t find a good link-path that will allow me to just link directly to their de-paywalled version. Alternatively, you can always just disable Javascript in your preferred web browser; that’s how all those paywall thingamabobs work, or so I’m given to understand.

Another, probably better obit—one that reads less like it was AI-generated.

Tattoo artist dies after crash with Gaston County police officer
A Gastonia tattoo artist was killed in a crash with a Gaston County Police Department officer over the weekend.

Investigators said the Gaston County officer was responding to a shooting call Saturday when he collided with Randy Herring’s truck on West Franklin Boulevard.

Police said the officer had his lights and siren on when he drove through the Webb Street intersection. The police cruiser was gone by the time a Channel 9 crew arrived at the scene, but we were able to see a pickup truck smashed against a pole.

Herring’s daughter, Brittany Thomas, told Channel 9′s Ken Lemon she just wants to know how the crash turned fatal when her father was in such a large and protective truck. She said her dad meant everything to her.

“Everything,” she said crying. “My kids lost their Paw Paw.”

The crash happened about two miles from Herring’s tattoo shop, where so many people say he touched their lives.

“He loved painting, drawing, he would even draw on my kids with a pen,” Thomas said.

Herring’s son, Randall Herring II, told Lemon he found out about the crash when loved ones realized his father was missing.

He said there were no details about what happened but he recognized some of the faces at the crash scene.

“A lot of the police officers on the scene, my father tattooed them,” he said.

He said his father would have been happy to see that.

I’m sure he would’ve at that. I know exactly where that Webb St intersection is, horribly enough; it isn’t far from where my ex-wife lives just off West Franklin, where I go to pick my daughter up. I musta driven through that same fateful junction about, oh, a bazillion and a half times over the years, going back to drag-racing up and down Franklin as a teenage hot-rodder.

I still can’t quite wrap my head around all this, folks. What a godawful tragedy, all the way around.

Updated update! Okay, another story I just gotta tell. The day I went in to have “Bang Zoom” tattooed on my knuckles, Randy sat me down before we got started and gave me the spiel, seriously and somberly, in that soft redneck drawl of his: “Look, Mike, I know you very well, and I already know how you feel and what you’re gonna say. I don’t mean to lecture or sound preachy, but I still have to warn you just the same: knuckles are the Final Frontier, ain’t no turning back from here. This, you won’t be able to cover up or hide, no way. It means you’ll never work a straight job in an office ever again. Are you sure you want to go through with it?”

Now at that time I was working at the H-D shop with Goose, who is more heavily tatted up than I am, even. This was in the halcyon days before every yuppie idjit and his sister’s cat’s grandmother started getting ink, mind. Tattooing was still strictly an outlaw, taboo sort of thing, the by and large exclusive province of sailors, bikers, Marines, ex-cons, and other sundry misfits. The usual reaction of Joe Normal, as he crossed the street to avoid passing close to you, could be summed up as: You’re tattooed? Ya loser!

By then, Randy had already finished both my arms shoulder to wrist, as well as the black cat on my neck—Lucky, we called him, done in loving memory of the incomparable Mr Kitty. Thus, I considered myself to be fully and firmly committed; I’d already gone well past the point of no return as a fully-paid-up Tattooed Freak, and didn’t give a tinker’s damn. I was perfectly content with my lifestyle choices to date, foolish though the Squarejohn world would doubtless think them.

Too, I’d spent a month in the office as dispatch manager at Airborne Express not long before and had loathed every second of it, considering the job a thirty-day sentence in the very bowels of Hell. Wanting no more of such, I wound up telling my boss to put me back in a truck again before I went bugfuck nuts and broke down in a frothing hissy fit out on the loading dock. T’weren’t no going back indoors for me, not if I had anything to say about it.

As it developed—UNEXPECTED!!!™—I was wrong about that: some years later, I would be hired on by Outlaw Biker/Art & Ink Publications, working in an office with people who cared not a whit that I was a tattooed, to-the-bone old-school biker; an itinerant rock and roll musician; a seedster Harley wrench, all that bushwa. Yeah, it was an office job, but I was among like-minded souls there, so it worked out pretty nicely for all concerned.

Even so, I always appreciated Randy being thoughtful enough, caring enough, to remind me of how high the stakes were, and have never forgotten it, bless his heart. Although I haven’t seen him in four-five years, I’ll always miss the man.

Learned earlier today that my beloved mother-in-law passed away this past Saturday, victim of a severe stroke during what should have been a relatively routine surgery to remove a benign tumor from her eye. Xenia was one hell of a woman, without doubt the smartest, wittiest, most erudite person I’ve ever had the privilege to know. After her daughter, my late wife Christiana, departed this vale of tears sixteen years ago, Xenia and I remained very close; as I told her back then, she was family to me, and would always remain so.

Xenia, as I’ve mentioned here before a time or three, was the daughter of Willy and Olga Ley; Olga was prima ballerina of the Moscow Ballet before emigrating to Germany to marry Willy, and he was….well, he was Willy friggin’ Ley, ferchrissake. A promo pic of Olga after the Leys had relocated to NYC, fleeing pre-WW2 Germany just in the nick of time:

In this next one, Xenia is the black-haired young lady at left of the group shot in the bottom-right corner:

One more photo, this one a print of Xenia’s high-school senior portrait:

That one has enjoyed pride of place on the living-room wall of every hovel, shack, and miserable-ass shanty I’ve lived in for the last, oh, eighteen-nineteen years, I reckon.

I simply can’t begin to express my shock upon learning this morning that my dear MiL was gone. The running joke between us, especially since my catastrophic ordeal nearly two years ago, was that she would easily outlive me—I always loved to josh her that she was just too damned mean to die.

Xenia was of a personality type like to my old H-D shop boss Goose: loved fronting as a grouchy, irascible old curmudgeon, a crusty misanthrope, a human-hater’s human-hater, when anyone who was close to either of them knew otherwise. Quite the opposite, in fact; both are/were the most warm-hearted, courteous, giving, and fun-loving characters you’d ever want to meet.

Not that Xenia couldn’t effortlessly intimidate the ever-loving shit out of lesser mortals who unwisely got in her face and annoyed her, mind. Like Goose, she didn’t suffer fools AT ALL, never mind gladly. It took quite a bit of provocation, but when Xenia shut some obnoxious, persistent lackwit down, she by God shut ‘em the fuck DOWN. I know; I saw it happen once or twice, and loved her all the more for it too.

Xenia, as I said, was a bona fide genius. Spoke seven languages, had 12+ books published—everything from glossy hardcover how-to manuals on leatherworking, macrame, and horse-tack to tomes on the joys of horseback-riding, gardening, and rock and roll music. Speaking of, she was the consummate rock and roll mom: attended the first Woodstock festival; made trips down to the Stone Pony to see Springstreet before he was anybody; saw Led Zep’s NYC stops on their very first US tour; ditto for the Stones, The Who, you name it, she was there, with big ol’ bells on.

In fact, it was Xenia who was responsible for myself and her lovely daughter attending the Rolling Stones’ Giants Stadium show with her back in 2005. Neither Christiana nor I were terribly excited about going (a-HENH!), not being Stones fans by any stretch of the imagination. Happily, Xenia insisted in that stern way of hers that brooked NO dissent, popping for expensive close-in seats for the three of us and then burning a goodish chunk of her gazillion-plus frequent flyer miles to schlep us on up for the weekend. To my stunned delight, it was one HELL of a show—one of the best I ever did see, in fact. So good was it that I had no problem at all swallowing my stubborn pride afterwards and thanking her profusely for dragging us along.

About, oh, I dunno, ten years back or so, Xenia was herself dragged to her father’s hometown in Germany for the official celebration of his birth anniversary. German TV made a whole big do of it, filming her on a private tour of the modest home her mom and dad had lived in for years before coming to the States. After that, it was a studio interview with her about her thoughts on the whole experience.

She was nonplussed, to say the very least. When she got back home, she called right away to tell me all about it, saying, “I kept telling them and telling them, this house means nothing to me; I never lived here, I was born in New York! This is just some damned house to me, how the hell am I supposed to be all nostalgic about it!” We both had a good laugh over that, one of so, so many we shared over the years.

And now she’s gone, and my world won’t ever be the same again. Her second husband Glenn, a truly wonderful guy I got to know well through her and Christiana, called me to let me know she’d died, in the process giving me some details of sitting with her in the hospital both during and after the fateful surgery that say all you’ll ever need to know about what a sweet man he really is.

After being notified by the docs that things looked bleak at best for her, Glenn raced home for his acoustic guitar, then came back to spend hours strumming and singing all of this Rock and Roll Mom’s favorites: Elvis, Dylan, etc. There’s a beautiful phrase from Shakespeare that I sometimes like to toss into these obits of mine: May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. Thanks to an angel in human shape name of Glenn, that was precisely the case with my mother-in-law.

Forever may you rest easy in God’s loving embrace, Xenia Parker, until the joyous day we meet again. You will never be forgotten.

Update! Just remembered another great Xenia story: way back in ’92, well over a decade before I made her or her lovely daughter’s acquaintance, she was at the BPs Tramps show with Little Richard, was scheduled to fly up to Canada someplace for work the next morn. Her job entailed a great deal of air travel, see (hence those several million frequent-flyer miles that got us to the wilderness of New Jersey for the Stones), and being a lifelong Horse Person, wherever she went on this continent she’d always try to grab a Racing Form just to see if there might be a horse worth playing from the comfort of her palatial hotel suite.

On this occasion, what to her wondering eyes should appear but a horse yclept—no fooling, I’m serious—Belmont Playboy, of all things, running at 20 to 1 odds. She dropped a few bucks on him to win, thinking the name might be some kind of omen or something. Against all odds, in a manner of speaking, the horse won, and Xenia glommed a cool four or five grand off the plunge. When she told me that story years later, she almost cracked a rib laughing over it.