Auto Neurotic Ass Fixing n Aching

Just caught this episode of Married with Children where Al tries to keep his beloved rust heap alive. It reminded me, in this sweltering July, of the countless beyond countless hours I spent helping my hardheaded dad work on crustbucket Delta 88's and other ancient models of American made nightmares of the open road. Some of my least favorite memories(but in hindsight, ridiculously funny) of dear old Pa were forged in the garage. Well, halfway in the garage. We had so much crap in there that the cars usually only fit just enough into it so that I constantly had to duck or smack my greasy teenage forehead against the bottom of the garage door.

 It wasn't the way one saw the Beaver or Ricky Nelson working on cars with their dads. No lemonade from a doting wife, no precious life advice passed down from father to son, no purring of a finely tuned engine. It was swearing, cigarettes, beer and or coffee, sweat, farts, swearing, tears, and holding stuff in place in lieu of clamps(all the while wishing I was in my room watching Mtv, or more likely exploring my hormone saturated teen body). And ultimately utter failure. I got yelled at for not being able to distinguish metric sockets from standard ones(why the fuck did American cars have metric parts?), I had to test drive cars with no brakes around the block, go to the autoparts store for parts(not a real hot chick hang out), or go out for more cigarettes. Marlboro Red, hard pack. You don't know how often hearing my friends order that same kind of cigarette brings back flashbacks. It was either brutally hot when doing something as complicated as a brakejob, or pretty near freezing and dark around seven at night in November(when I probably should have been doing homework or, you know, eating my dinner). The relief I felt when the job was finally over is still greater in my mind than when I punch out of work now as an adult. Dad was my first asshole boss.

In the end, the knowledge I gleaned from dad about fixing cars is next to nothing. I know you are supposed to cuss, ask God why he saddled you with such a worthless child, or mutter something about wd40 with a smoke dangling from one's lips. Do I know how to change a sparkplug now? What the fuck does a sparkplug even look like? I think it's like lightning bolt shaped or something. Can I change a tire? Sure. But that's something I learned myself. Do I loathe the smell of gritty degreasing hand soap? I would fill my worst enemy's mouth full of that crap before I lower a 1990 Caprice full of fishing tackle onto their heads as they lay unsuspecting on a mechanic creeper. What a fitting name for  that usless un- skateboard. They probably named it that, because mechanics always slide out from under a hot babe's car on one to catch a quick glimpse of her panties as she hovers nearby in desperation to get her car back. Do I want to shoot automatic weapons fire into oil filters when I see them? Duh.

Yet, despite all this unpleasantness, I would not trade those experiences for anything. Not being a rich Romneybot who probably never had to touch a wrench in his life, not being a closeted teen homosexual who would duck dad by just living at drama club practice( and going on to later success as a major Hollywood star), nor being a msicreant child who would completely ignore their parents' requests. Because....it made me a MAN. With a capital fucking M. You learn dad is pretty much full of shit, but he means well. You learn that mechanics are crooks to never ever be trusted, and that swearing is probably the greatest free pleasure we still have as Americans. That driveways are where real men bond(not golf courses). That  dad has lots of cool stuff you can use to steampunk your boring action figures. That the neighbors are all supreme buttholes. That food tastes a million times better after starving through three hours of boredom and frustration trying to install a new exhaust. Man shit. Thank you, Pa(and Al Bundy) for those times. And for teaching me ways to swear I had never even dreamed of.