FRYING THE BALONEYS OFF OF DANICA PATRICK AT THE SMOG CUTTER

By Cole Coonce
6/8/05

y friend Myron and I were sipping good, smoky whiskey at the Smog Cutter in the Thai Town section of East Hollywood, while listening to various Burmese chanteuses chirp out ballads on the jukebox. We began the night by bench racing, but ended it by arguing about IndyCar sensation Danica Patrick and female racecar drivers.

Myron is a drag racing writer and is a geeky, greasy-haired academic type with Clark Kent-type cheaters. His goofball nerdiness is mitigated by penchant for pop art t-shirts. Tonight he was wearing a white cotton t-shirt featuring a photo of a vintage Barracuda Funny Car doing a burnout. Through the copious clouds of smoke, the garment is emblazoned with the motto: “I’d Rather Be Frying the Baloneys.”

I asked Sunshine, the brunette Asian bar wench and part owner of the Smog Cutter, who was singing on the jukebox.

“That ‘Hwa Hwa and Bell.’” Sunshine said in broken English. “Famous hit single ‘Oh Oh Oh’ Big seller in Bangkok.”

Myron was unimpressed with Hwa Hwa and Bell and their record sales. For a nerdy-gearhead, he can exhibit a real mean streak that surfaces after a couple of belts of the hard stuff, and tonight was going to be one of those nights.

“I can’t get a buzz and sing along to this crap, Sunshine,” Myron complained. “You got any Kitty Wells or Patsy Cline on that jukebox of yours.”

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“Kitty Wells? This no cowboy bar, John Wayne. This Thailand bar. You want redneck girls singing about handjob in pick-up truck, you go to cowboy bar in North Hollywood. Smog Cutter just play music from Thailand.”

“Hey, speaking of Thailand, I hear you can get a virgin for seven dollars over there,” Myron reported. “Or two for twelve.”

Sunshine stuck out her tongue. “You funny guy, Crark Kent.”

I ordered another round of Bushmills. During a lull in the libation and conversation, I looked over my shoulder at the smattering of elderly Thai gents smoking cigarettes and playing pai gow poker with a couple of Vietnam vets. Meanwhile, Myron began thumbing through the new Sports Illustrated and he had had enough.

“Hay-sus Chreest-o,” he blathered. “Can’t I get a friggin’ drink in a hole in the wall in a godforsaken section of town where nobody speaks any English without having to read about Danica freaking Patrick.”

“I’m with you, dude,” I concurred. “You can’t get a way from Danica-fever and all the cheesecake photos of her. Apparently, this week she was googled on the internet more often than Lindsay Lohan, Pamela Anderson and Britney Spears, and was out-googled only by Paris Hilton.”