|Dec. 20/2012: Calypso Hut, Brampton )|
It's funny how a hot car is called a "chick magnet." Because that has never been my experience. In my experience, cars are guy magnets. Like the time earlier this week when I visited one of my favourite Brampton haunts, Calypso Hut. (Guyanese food so delicious you would sell your virginity for it ... if you still had it to sell.) As I pulled in to the parking lot, some old feller in what I would charitably describe as a rustbucket pulled in beside me. And out of nowhere, men started getting sucked into its orbit.
They were literally leaving their lunch AND their women behind and exiting the restaurant to circle the car and ask its delighted owner, "Hey, bud, what kind of car is this?" And engaging in a good half hour of excited, masturbatory conversation that was audible even from inside the restaurant where I was gorging myself on far more interesting topics (pepper shrimp, fried green beans with black bean sauce, roti ... ooooh, are those fried chicken wings? Well maybe just one or two ...) I learned a lot about that car over lunch. If you are a guy and you give a shit, here's what I learned: It's a 1933 Chevy,150 series. There were only three models made. It's "fully restored, underneath and everything." They still make original parts for it. Dude's been workin' on it for years. And also blahblahblahblahblah.
If that car had run me over in the street the very next day, I would not even have recognized it. That, folks, is the nugget, the kernel, the ESSENCE of the difference between men and women. Do not ever get it twisted. We are different from birth, and all it takes is one vintage rustbucket to prove it.