As Long As We're Off On This Tangent . . .
Well into my teenage years we had a girl in the neighborhood named Dagmar. She was very exotic looking, but not at all like the "real" Dagmar, quite the intimidating "bad girl" and was not to be messed with.
I don't know how it originated, but those who lived on her street referred to her as "Bongo Lips" behind her back. There was nothing terribly unusual about her lips, other than the fact that they were a little fuller than average and often bore a healthy application of lipstick, probably from Woolworth's. Maybe she talked too much, although I don't remember that she did.
Once I somehow got recruited to follow her in a hot-wired a car that belonged to her or a family member, a mid 60's Chrysler I think, with a sketchy transmission, to some low brow mechanic or other similarly funky destination. She prefaced the excursion with a stern warning that I had better not allow the engine to die. Some of the more scary moments of my life up to that point occurred as the car balked its way up a high overpass above the railroad tracks. It's tough to say whether I would have lived to tell about it if the car had conked out. Even if it wasn't my fault, that wouldn't have mattered.