It was raining. Monday night, and the B-52's were playing Harpo's, an old movie theater on the east side of Detroit. Anticipation was the drug.

Creeping along 14 Mile Road, I pulled up next to a muscled-up '69 Nova. The moustachioed guy driving was wearing a cowboy hat, and smoking a Marlboro. His stereo's blasting "Planet Claire" so loud that he could've been arrested for disturbing the peace. Just before the light turned green, he started brake-torquing. Bluish smoke poured from beneath the car, and everyone behind the motorhead had to crawl through the burnt rubber fog.

At the next stoplight, the Cowpunk glanced over at me, grinning like a possum eating shit. Again, moments before the light turned green, he began to brake-torque. Smoke billowed, reducing visibility to zero.

The Cowpunk repeated this nonsense all the way down the road, with the 8-52's for musical accompaniment. At the last stop light before my exit, I rolled down the window and shouted, "Hey! Do you like the 8-52's?" The Cowpunk realized I was trying to communicate with him. "Whadidja say?" he asked in a thick Southern accent I said Do you like the B-52's? once again He Smiled.