Before the Smog Cutter was East Hollywood’s most infamously decrepit karaoke joint, it was reportedly one of Charles Bukowski’s dives of choice. While this has yet to be corroborated by the ninety-year-old hunchbacked regular who apparently takes a vow of silence between spirited performances of Clarence Carter’s “Stroke It,” one look at the dingy, faux-wood paneled interior and world-weary patrons seems like evidence enough. You may not be as lucky as I am and live spitting distance from the place, but if you share old Hank’s penchant for stiff drinks, small time hustlers and hard women, you just may have found yourself a home away from home.
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