I don?t where to start or how far to go. Hell, I don?t know what you want to hear. I don?t even know where I am from time to time, but fuck it. I?ll tell you what I know and take it from there. I?m in Baltimore, one of the more beautiful ports around. We rolled up the Chesapeake Bay just like in that old war movie, ?Run Silent Run Deep?. It was creepy, as if we were steaming over a flat lake in a dense fog. But as we reached Baltimore, a horseshoe of harbor lights engulfed us until we pulled into the dreaded Lazaretto Warf, Berth A.
As the morning dew lifted to a strong smattering of clouds threatening rain, we made arrangements to escape the rust, not one minute too soon. The ship was immediately swarmed with Rickmier agents, attorneys and a knock-out blonde who sold brokered yachts. It seems that when Hold No. 1 caught fire in Japan, fragments caught and burnt the top deck and interior of a 50-foot yacht and small steamer. I could smell litigation as I called a cab from the ship to pick us up on the docks.
Unlike the Savannah cabby system, these operators didn?t know where we were and could care less. Immediately they demanded a local number from me and I had to explain to every operator that I was on a ship and incapable of having a local number. Finally, I had to get my own info and map and try to explain to the operator once more where I needed to be picked up. When we finally hailed a cap, he had no idea where I was going and spoke little English. Finally in the afternoon I was forced to return to the ship.
I was somewhat relieved, yet my mission to find a whorehouse and get laid was dismally attended to. I made it to dinner on the ship and picked at my meal like a disappointed teenager. I went to my room to write when the cell phone rang. Frank Kaisler, the editor of Hot Rod Bikes, grew up in Baltimore and I had given him a call for a connection. He told me to call Larry McCullough of Pro Paint in Baltimore and ask for his girlfriend, Debbie. She was once in the nightclub business on the back streets of the harbor city, less than an hour from Washington, D.C. The rescue call came at just the right moment as the Filipino members of the crew began welding something to the deck above the gang plank. Burning chunks of paint were blistering from overhead and falling on the deck below, creating a curtain of terror in the way of my escape. I ducked the burning shards as a crewmember sprayed my feet with what appeared to be a garden hose.
Larry came to my rescue and swept me away. His dually took us to his shop, Pro Paint, and I was blown right out of my seat.
I’d never met Larry before. His shop has been open for more than 8 years. He has a very well-organized, professional custom bike shop with a metal fabrication wing and separate facility for mixing, painting and buffing, all under the same roof. I thought I knew every world class builder in the country. Before I get to the girls, let?s get to the news: Ah, but first I must tell you that one of Larry?s creations recently won a Bikernet Bike Show and the owner?s trophy was on the counter. The name of the bike was Dawn.
If you?re in the neighborhood next weekend he?s having a Christmas party, and rumor has it that the event will be killer. Call (410) 282-2004. Larry is a respectful, humble young talent in this industry. Watch for the report we do on his shop next week. His Web site is propaint-fab.com. Check it out.
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