Here we are again, strolling through the gentle hills in the storied Baltimore neighboorhood of Dundalk, land of a thousand enchantments, and home to the most beautiful and stylish women, and of course, their equally verile and handsome gentlemen. The Mobtown Greaseball gives the kar kulture community a chance to step out and strut, showing off their fabulous sense of style and fashion, their stunning and wide array of tattoos and body art, and of course the reddest lipstick this side of 1956!
Enchanting beauty and style to boot!
Dig that crazy beard, man.
Wicked cool shades- A shame to cover up all those beautiful eyes!
Sorry to have been away for so long, gentle readers. I have been off the road and confined to the limitations imposed by a lengthy stay in hospital and have been unable to fulfill my duties as your chronicler of the changing American Roadside. But never fear, pain and Doctor’s orders are not enough to keep a good man down, so it was into the blue skies and clean air of scenic Dundalk ( a neighborhood on the east of Baltimore) that the Vintage Haberdasher and myself found ourselves transported yesterday for the 15th Annual Mobtown Greaseball, an event that celebrates and glorifies the best in vintage kar kulture, rockabilly style, cheesecake pinups, sideshow artistry and all around good family fun for all. There was so much to see & experience that I was barely able to scratch the surface, and in my weakened state was not able to capture even a fraction of what this event has to offer, but I’ll try to present a small portion of what was on display for the naked eye to behold! We’ll start with a small sampling of the mechanical marvels, and future postings will feature people, faces, tattoos and of course, the astounding Lucky! The Painproof Man! Enjoy!
These are old school rat rods and the finest in the contemporary style of kar kustomization! No trailer queens here!
The beauty of fine pinstriping
Art is where you find it, and at the 2nd annual Maryland Traditions Folklife Festival in Baltimore, Maryland there was art in abundance- from the musicians, artists and skilled traditional craftsmen and women on the stages and under the tents, to the walking canvases in the crowd, joyously displaying their body art for all the world to share. A fine traditional art form of the masses for thousands of years, a form of personal creative expression for king & peasant alike, the tattoo is experiencing a renaissance in the dawn of the 21st century, with masters and apprentices alike creating vivid canvases that step outside the museum walls and take it to the street- Literally! If you like what you see, and have any suggestions of stunning body art or artists that are in need of professional documentation, feel free to get in touch. Enjoy!
Finn’s breath whistled out in a fair impression of a teapot brought to boil as the blade of the razor kissed the soft, pampered skin of his neck. It felt like the gentle tickle of his grandmother’s feather duster, as she had teasingly shooshed him along when he got underfoot as she cleaned the house long ago in his youth, but the warm, wet feeling that dripped under his collar and down his chest, combined with the equally warm wet feeling that saturated his pant’s leg sent alarm bells ringing in his beer be-fuddled brain. Much of his former bravado and suburban swagger left him as easily and quickly as his bladder had loosened at the touch of the surgically sharp blade melting into his delicate flesh and the cool night Baltimore air further ridiculed him by pressing his damp trousers close to his goose-pimpled legs. Barlow and Daryll stood frozen in a parody of a department store window display, wishing the spell would be broken, that their bodies would be restored to flesh and muscle, and that they could turn and run for their worthless lives, all the while praying that they would henceforth devote themselves to good works and helping old ladies cross the street. “ Maaaa…” whimpered Finn. “ Please, Maaaa…”
“You have exactly thirty seconds to explain just what chicaneries you are about this evening”, whispered Mendocino Jones, his breath hot and smelling like strong Ethiopian coffee close to Alton Findley’s cheek, “ before I relieve you, and your toxiphorous friends of your testicles and your wasted existences on this planet. A hothouse sybarite like myself can not tolerate intrusions by senseless vagabonds such as yourselves. Speak quickly. My patience is limited!”
“Maaa…. Men…. Mendocino! Mendocino!”, coughed out Finn, tears coursing down his cheeks, spittle spraying from his puffy lips. “Mendocino! Please man, you know me! Alton Findley! My mom! Remember?!? You knew my mom!”
“ Aaaaaaaaaaah”, cooed the towering black giant. “ Your mother, yes, aaahhh, a graceful gazelle, an alabaster goddess, a courtesan of unequaled talent, why, if memory serves, she could suck the chrome off a……….., but I digress into the realm of vulgarity, and in the presence of her, ah, offspring. How she could spawn an exiguous salamander as yourself…… “ the thought trailed off into the void. Jones shoved Findley to the sidewalk as one might brush aside a worrisome gnat, and brushed an invisible speck of lint from the lapel of his smoking jacket. The straight razors had vanished somewhere into the folds of the harem pants.
“ I ain’t your daddy, dung beetle, so tell me- What exactly brings you to my humble abode?”
The door opened slowly inwards, and a pair of wary brown eyes looked out into the quiet Baltimore night. Looked down on Finn, Barlow and Daryll, to be more accurate, as the orbs appeared to be suspended in the shadows a good seven feet above the sill of the door. “May I be of assistance, gentlemen?”, came a voice from just below the hovering eyes, its texture reminding Barlow of the thick black molasses his grandmother used to pour into her coffee on cool Virginia mornings. “A bit late in the evening for a social call.” A vague hint of menace oozed in the simple statement. The door opened an inch further.
“Have I had the pleasure? You have me at a disadvantage, I’m afraid, and I do not enjoy having my leisure disturbed.” As the door cracked a few more inches, the meager light from the street illuminated a monster standing in the threshold. At seven feet two inches tall, Mendocino Jones had to stoop to stand in the doorway, and his massive girth filled the passageway. The harsh light from the street lamps only served to exaggerate the intricate web of scars that covered his burnished ebony face and shaven skull and his mouth was drawn back in a caricature-like rictus of a smile. In sharp contrast to his physically intimidating body, the giant was clothed in a velvet burgundy smoking jacket, a gold satin ascot caressing his tree trunk of a neck. Matching gold satin harem pants fluttered around his legs and his freakishly dainty feet were warmed by a pair of red pointed toed slippers. It was as if the carnival had come through town and deposited the entire cast of the sideshow on the stoop of a Baltimore rowhouse in the guise of one individual.
“I ask again, young gentlemen. How may I help you?” and in that instant a straight razor appeared as if by magic in each of Mendocino Jones’s hands, the blades glistening in the streetlight.