Clutch

I went to a pirate concert last night, which was cool in and of itself. Pirate Punk, actually. You've gotta love songs about rum and the high seas, especially when said shanties shatter your eardrums.

At one point, the frontman asked, "be anyone in the audience a bloody ninja?". I held my tongue.

Anyway, as much fun as it was to watch a dude sing into a shark-mike about a whore from Shanghai, that wasn't the craziest part of the night.

It went down like this: I would be the designated driver, or so I found out when I got picked up. No big deal, I don't need to drink to enjoy Musical Piracy.

I would be driving someone else's car, or so the logistics worked out. No big deal, cars are cars, right?

I would be driving a standard transmission. But I don't know how to drive stick.

So, this was an adventure.

Mind you, I know how standard gearboxes work. Back in the heady days of yesteryear, as an undergrad, I'd designed a 5-speed gearbox for class, which was pertinent to my studies for some reason. When it comes to standard transmission, I'm book-smart.

Real life was a different matter. I stalled in Highland Park, but only a few times. By the time we got to Rochelle Park, I was only occasionally forgetting how to get into first. With the exception of a missed downshift on the way home (2nd is not 4th), I was smooth like butter, and even parallel parked without destroying anything!

Whoa. I can kinda drive stick now... and I know kung fu.