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I could just as soon
fix a space shuttle as I could an automobile. Lifting the hood of
my car does nothing but point to my ignorance and make me feel like
a six-year-old girl on her first day of ballet class. I've owned a
car for two years whose engine has seen the light of day a total of
twice--once on the dealer's lot when the salesman wanted to point
out the sparkplugs or whatever and the second when my father-in-law
further pansified me by asking that horrible question: "what's this
baby got under the hood?" It turns out the answer to that question
is not much but a black monolithic looking thing that must be the
engine. Point being is that I belong in a place called Motor City
as much as I belong in a place called Dykes-a-Drinkin'. To carry the
illusion of Detroit and the automotive theme even further, the bartender
has her bottle openers hanging from those coily air hose things that
you'd see in a garage. The place itself feels like what I imagine
the backstage of an old-time Social Distortion show might feel like.
All the characters are present, including a couple pompadour dudes
with the compulsory skull tattoos. There was also an insane middle-aged
Russian dude with breathe that could smelt iron girders who had me
and the Mrs. on the long sell. He told us about the screenplay he
had and how people stole his money and that ugly dudes with beards
like him get no breaks, and that some guy at the YMCA stole his good
shoes, etc. And then came the pitch ... Which I was drunk enough to
laugh at and send him on his way. Despite the general annoyance, he
was slightly entertaining, and the bar itself was enjoyable and really
up my alley. I'm still having a little trouble getting the Vaseline
out of my hair, but I still probably had the cleanest do in the joint.
[MF]
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