Who gives a rat's ass.

Boy, apathy alert Day Two.

Here's my latest column at the Stillwater Gazette. I happen to believe it's a raging turd, but I'm not in the frame of mind to judge my work in a neutral fashion. I got nothin', repeat NOTHIN', so far for next week, so if I don't snap out of this funk I may have to lift one of Stacy’s posts and contribute it to the paper as my own.

I love depression! Love, love, love it!

THIS WEEK'S CRAPTASTIC COLUMN
My wife drives a Mini Cooper, a British import that’s rare enough to garner inquisitive looks and questions from strangers. How’s the mileage? Is it fun to drive? What’s it like in the snow? All of these are valid questions, and truth be told despite our introverted nature my wife and I enjoy the attention. Recently, however, a neighbor posed a real puzzler:

How big is the gas tank?

My first inclination was to tell him with a straight face that the trade-off for the car’s compact size is an eight-ounce gas tank necessitating fuel stops every two miles. Such was his look of earnestness, however, that I didn’t have the heart to chide him. Instead, I admitted I had no earthly clue as to the size of the tank, and as he wandered off dejectedly I couldn’t help but muse about men’s nearly universal fascination with things mechanical.

Everyone has childhood memories of “helping” their dad fix the car and having him be mortified when presented with the 3/8” wrench rather than the 7/16” as requested. Most fathers and sons can laugh about that later in life as they bond over the restoration of a ’57 Chevy. Not so with my dad and me. Despite his best efforts—going so far as to guide my tool search by calling out “cold,” “warm,” or “hot”—I could never quite get the distinction between tools down. The crowning glory was when he requested a spark plug gapper and I dutifully presented him with a rake. From the look on his face, I may as well have worn leggings to a Boy Scout Jamboree. Dad’s communication with me thereafter was limited to birthday cards with Jiffy Lube gift certificates stuffed inside.

Family reunions were a particularly unique opportunity for me to demonstrate my mechanical illiteracy. After the potluck meal was ingested, the women would retire to the parlor to discuss homemaking (this was a long time ago, people), while the men congregated in the driveway, car hoods popped open, talking cylinders. I felt conspicuously out of place but did my best to fit in, always with socially catastrophic results. I recall one especially harrowing incident. With my thumbs strategically hooked in my belt loops, I fumbled under the front of someone’s car seeking the hood latch, asking appreciatively “Is this a four-banger or a six-banger?” After an awkward silence, someone replied “It’s a vintage Volkswagen Beetle, so that’s the trunk.” All I recall after that is dad sobbing uncontrollably, immune to our relatives’ vain attempts at consolation.

My sole foray into auto repair ended disastrously. Once, as a teenager, I changed the oil in my car. I couldn’t mask my pride, and while tightening the oil pan bolt (using the proper wrench, thank you very much), I couldn’t help but imagine dad proudly gazing at my grease-stained fingers, retracting his longstanding claim that I was adopted. Unfortunately, the one rule of oil-changing I apparently missed was that the bolt should be finger-tight, not tightened with a wrench ‘til the metal disintegrates. What followed was our neighborhood’s version of the Exxon Valdez oil spill with crude cascading down the driveway and into the street in a black torrent. As neighbors glared at me while scrubbing neighborhood pets free of petroleum, I knew then that when dad died he’d sooner be buried with his tools than risk them winding up in my bumbling hands.

My tool box consists of a cell phone and a list of numbers to call in case of mechanical emergency, and even that’s a problem. Whenever I call to make an appointment to have my beat-up old pickup truck serviced, the mechanic always wants to know if it’s the 2.3 or 3.0 liter engine. “Probably,” I reply impatiently. You might wonder how I even know when it’s time to change the oil. It’s like using a knife to see if the brownies are done: when the dipstick comes out “clean,” it’s time for an oil change.

My wife’s Mini Cooper is so advanced that a light comes on when it’s time for regularly scheduled maintenance. We drive to the dealership and drink coffee in a tastefully-decorated waiting area while men in grease-stained coveralls whisk the car away to do their magic. I may not know how big the gas tank is, but I do know it takes three cappuccinos to change the oil.