“Lindsay Lohan? Pamela Anderson? Britney Spears? Paris Hilton? What a litany of trust-funders and clothes-horses who have done their entire gender a disservice,” Myron spluttered. “Just like Danica. Danica is all style and no substance. She finished fourth in the Indy 500 only because she spun out on a caution lap and caused four other cars to crash! Give me a break.”

“Dude, I have to play Devil’s advocate. Crash under the yellow flag aside, Danica led a couple of laps in the Indy 500. No chickee has ever done that before. And she’s a rookie.”

I then told Myron about the time I went to Pole Day for the Indianapolis 500 a couple of years ago. That year the fairer sex was represented on the speedway by Lyn St. James, who qualified at the back of the pack. Just to show that the race fans were behind her efforts, some of the bleacher rats hung a banner that read: “Atta’ Boy, Lyn!”

As I finished that anecdote, “Heart of Glass” by Blondie began to spin on the jukebox.

“Hey Sunshine,” Myron yelled. “I thought you only had Thai music on the jukebox.”

“Blondie popular all over the world. Besides, Debbie Harry and Blondie good for karaoke night.”

“Finally,” Myron whispered dreamily as he basked in Debbie Harry’s crooning and ran his dirty fingernails through his unkempt hair. “A woman in the mix who has earned her stripes.”

“Listen, dude,” I interrupted. “You are wrong about Danica Patrick and you are wrong about Blondie. Debbie Harry was a no-talent blank slate for a team of songwriters and record producers. Her voice is a thin as a reed and is as tortuous as said bamboo shoot up the fingernails.”

The pai gow poker players heard the bit about the “bamboo shoots,” put down their cards and cigarettes and looked at Myron and me.

Myron was oblivious to their actions and fired back at me. “I think your low regard of Ms. Harry as a so-called ‘blank slate’ is mebbee’ a little bit too simple and is possibly sexist.”

“Wait a minute, ‘Mr. Two Virgins for Twelve Dollars.’ You’re calling me sexist?”

“Yes, I am. Your take on Ms. Harry was kinda’ reductive and painted with a real broad stroke of the brush, no doubt about it.”

I felt compelled to explain myself. “I don't think that being a ‘blank slate’ is necessarily a bad thing,” I said. “For example: Some of the finest pop music ever made only happened because some kind of egomaniacal freak went apeshit in the recording studio with some glorified blow-up doll of a singer. Like Blondie. Or like Phil Spector’s catalogue: the Teddy Bears, the Ronettes, etc. My point is someone has to be the mastermind and SOMEONE has to be the blow up doll.”

“Are you calling Blondie and Danica Patrick blow-up dolls?” Myron asked as he tossed the copy of Sports Illustrated down the bar.

“I am saying that Blondie is a blow-up doll, but that Danica Patrick can actually drive a racecar. But even so, there is a tradition of no-talents of the fairer sex making waves in popular culture, whether it is with a racecar or a microphone. I am saying that regardless of talent, brazen sexuality trumps substance and makes headlines.”

This caught Sunshine’s ear.

“Danica Patrick may be bigger than Britney Spears blow-up doll,” she said. “But she no Hwa Hwa and Bell.”

Myron got up and put some money in the jukebox.

Cole Coonce blogs about drag racing, cycling, punk rock and modern literature at www.kerosenebomb.com; He can be reached at cc@kerosenebomb.com

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