Enrolling at Emily Griffith was not necessarily of the incongrous nature it appeared to be. Although in recounting this decision to others later down the road I made it seem to be a clean start borne out of nowhere. But the truth was that it was a puzzle whose pieces were slow in being put together. By making it seem black and white, I added drama to my tale. It wasn't intentional, simply that I had forgotten, myself, where exactly the desire to change had come from. In hindsight, the seed was planted so many years before.
When I lived in Portland, freshly emancipated from the confines of school, I had a full head of dreadlocks, a semi-permanent hemp necklace and a girlfriend whose vegan proclivities rolled over into my denial of the pig and the cow flesh. I lived the ho-hum life of a 90's hippie who was content to spend his nights with friends around a dark and creamy pitcher of home-brew or taking in a dollar rerun with those same friends at the arty Bagdad Theater down the street from our house.
Although my gig at the coffee shop paid the bills and brewhouse tabs, I felt I was being surpassed by my compadres who gravitated toward jobs with futures. Yet, the fog of post-college was too thick to determine what exactly the final outcome of my life would be.
As the money was always too tight for anything extraneous I decided that changing the oil on my car was an easy way to save fifteen dollars better spent on beer.
It is with distinct clarity I can recall wandering into the street in front of our house and rifling through the trunk of my 1986, oxidized Chevy Celebrity for the emergency jack. Once found, I lodged the rickety thing under the pinch weld of the car and elevated it a foot off the ground. The pavement not being even, the vehicle teetered precariously on the jack and despite my serious reservations, I managed to loosen the drain plug and drain the oil. The filter was another matter entirely. I didn't seem to have enough room to get to it without putting my life in jeapordy. Being without health-insurance, as recent college grads are prone to be, even I recognized the danger of the situation. Somehow, with the car rocking wildly back and forth, I was able to twist the oil cylinder free and screw the new one into place. With a huge sigh of relief, I lowered the car and filled it with oil. My arm was coated with a shining black sleeve of grease where the filter had emptied itself and I walked back into the house where, amidst the smirks of my roomates, I changed from my petroleum reeking clothes into my proudly procured 70's hippie garb; and went out for a test drive in the ill-looking, but now well-running Celebrity. The two inch wide roadmarker of oil I laid down on that drive around the block could easily have been mistaken for a the grafitti of a drunken Department of Transportation worker, splitting a street into further division, except that their lines were yellow or white whereas mine was coal-black and slippery. Chances are, even if the city worker were drunk, they would have known how to tighten an oil filter before the angry red "low oil" light came on. When I pulled back into the driveway, and saw the growing puddle of black creeping out from underneath my engine, I pretty much lost my senses and ran screaming into the house with all sorts of colloquial profanity, derived from my father before me, spewing out of my lips. My roomates, many of whom appeared quite stoned, found this whole episode amusing beyond words (which was good because they couldn't really form any). One particular roomate took pity on me and with a olympic dexterity and without use of the scissor jack, reached into the wheel well and gave the filter one more solid turn. Ego bruised, but with problem solved, I did what I had done for years prior: I made the determination then and there that I would not get beat down with humiliation, but rather learn more and avoid the embarrassment and frustration of that moment.
This was not an easy process. I was, after all, the son of a man who filled his crankcase with coolant (or his radiator with oil, he won't exactly admit to either). And there were setbacks (as when I installed the doughnut spare tire backwards, on the side of a highway, with rain pouring down and semi trucks howeling past and the the blight of a hangover hammering at me and a friend hounding me as I did all of this, about how his flight to Germany was leaving in exactly 45 minutes! + Added Bonus: Tire Shop Mechanic's comment: "I've never seen that before!") OK, admittedly there were more than a few setbacks. But the more I fumbled, the harder I tried.
When a engineer friend of mine visited over the summer, someone who found pleasure restoring cars, I spent the entirety of a 5 hour hike grilling him about how engines and transmissions worked. When my beloved Chevy Celebrity vomited coolant after a concert one night and was towed into a shop, I made the mechanic explain in depth how water pumps worked. And so it went. With every breakdown, of which there were many, I learned more and more.
When I moved back to Colorado I began making a habit of doing the minor car repairs for our family. I replaced belts and batteries, alternators and radiators. I moved into that place where I truly became knowledgeable enough that I was dangerous. In fact, I became downright cocky. In replacing an alternator on my 1992 Honda Accord I discovered how tie-rod ends come off, and at the same time made a name for myself in the neighborhood where I grew up as the the greasy guy who had his car on jack stands next to the elementary school for days on end and who was so profane that mothers and children went a block out to there way to get past (that job eventually got redone by a professional mechanic by the way!)
But, I began fixing friend's cars. I actually made them believe that I could do it (uh, their cars ended up going to professional mechanics as well). At least with each ridiculous error I made, I learned something new and stuck another Haynes manual on my bookshelf. The love/hate relationship with this work stuck with me, not because I was particularly handy, but simply because I enjoyed learning and I enjoyed helping. I was always someone who would get bored with something if I had to do it to long, and wanted to always have something else around the bend to educate me. With car repair, I would never run out of challenges and new opportunities even when the walls felt like they were crashing down around me.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Sunday, October 17, 2010
The Slow Progress
For all that my lab partners and I lacked, we paled in comparison to the others. At least the cumulative sum of ages in our group added up to an number worthy of trust in the eyes of Brad. He could see right away that we exorcised a certain amount of responsibility and willfulness. This in spite of the fact that one of our members was trying hard to hide a history of unlawful acts. One day when there was a tour of the shop for new, perspective students, a tour attendee looked directly at John and asked, "So, can people who have been in jail come to this school, too?"
"Why the hell would she look and me and ask that?" John complained later. There was absolutely nothing that indicated to any observer that he had been incarcerated or slapped with a felony. Yet, she had looked right at him when posing the question to the tour guide. His forlorn expression following this stint foreshadowed the long road ahead and the battle he was fighting to make a honest name for himself. Still, he simply shrugged and carried on, educating our small unit and carrying us beyond our classmates.
In the far bays, the other groups struggled. Stripped of the older, wiser and more intent members, they were left to rely on a book, a computer program and Brad's snippets of feedback. Additionally, new class members would strangely appear and further dilute the other groups' knowledge base. The arrival of a student in the middle of a class term was not supposed to occur, but the dwindling attendance signaled problems for the class's continuation. The danger posed by this equation was obvious. The new members not only slowed the progress of everyone else, as educating them took time, but the heavy work that was occurring inside the garage was now being done by people who were being guided by students already blurry on the exact science of auto repair.
The eventual scenario resulted in an abnormally large group of students that was a morphing together of several other groups. The shop became a construction zone where ten people stood watching while one or two others wriggled loose large chunks of metal and wires around waterfalls of cascading oils and coolant. Brad seemed to have lost the energy necessary to redistribute students into their original placements and thus a number of students became listless and merely watched and copied information in order to pass the class. So low became the level of expectation that some of the younger members would sneak away in the middle of class to the strip-bar parking lot across the street and smoke dope with the valet from the club. They would return with their eyes red and lips covered in potato chip crumbs. From the lot they would make a beeline to their lab vehicles and with a new sense of confidence and clarity, implement large and imposing air tools to cut away rusty bolts and nuts while their safety glasses dangled from their pockets.
Often, I would read my book on the other side of the garage and cast an eye in the direction of the stoned students laughing and groping at the guts of their car. But, after a time, it became equally amusing to join in with the group of observers gathered around the vehicle and wait for the eventual injury that was sure to occur.
"Why the hell would she look and me and ask that?" John complained later. There was absolutely nothing that indicated to any observer that he had been incarcerated or slapped with a felony. Yet, she had looked right at him when posing the question to the tour guide. His forlorn expression following this stint foreshadowed the long road ahead and the battle he was fighting to make a honest name for himself. Still, he simply shrugged and carried on, educating our small unit and carrying us beyond our classmates.
In the far bays, the other groups struggled. Stripped of the older, wiser and more intent members, they were left to rely on a book, a computer program and Brad's snippets of feedback. Additionally, new class members would strangely appear and further dilute the other groups' knowledge base. The arrival of a student in the middle of a class term was not supposed to occur, but the dwindling attendance signaled problems for the class's continuation. The danger posed by this equation was obvious. The new members not only slowed the progress of everyone else, as educating them took time, but the heavy work that was occurring inside the garage was now being done by people who were being guided by students already blurry on the exact science of auto repair.
The eventual scenario resulted in an abnormally large group of students that was a morphing together of several other groups. The shop became a construction zone where ten people stood watching while one or two others wriggled loose large chunks of metal and wires around waterfalls of cascading oils and coolant. Brad seemed to have lost the energy necessary to redistribute students into their original placements and thus a number of students became listless and merely watched and copied information in order to pass the class. So low became the level of expectation that some of the younger members would sneak away in the middle of class to the strip-bar parking lot across the street and smoke dope with the valet from the club. They would return with their eyes red and lips covered in potato chip crumbs. From the lot they would make a beeline to their lab vehicles and with a new sense of confidence and clarity, implement large and imposing air tools to cut away rusty bolts and nuts while their safety glasses dangled from their pockets.
Often, I would read my book on the other side of the garage and cast an eye in the direction of the stoned students laughing and groping at the guts of their car. But, after a time, it became equally amusing to join in with the group of observers gathered around the vehicle and wait for the eventual injury that was sure to occur.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
The Drop Outs
With each day that passed at Emily Griffith, the class size dwindled. When we had first begun, each seat in the classroom was filled, but as Monday of the next week arrived, a seat smudged with a black imprint of an ass was made available. It became a sort of game for me to guess which student would go missing from one week to the next. With the gap in ages of those attending the morning session, it wasn't too difficult a challenge. The older students seems to vanish first. They realized early on that a high percentage of imbeciles spelled disaster in a learning environment that was anchored in place by the youngsters' slow progress. On the contrary, the imbeciles found more value in a few hours of sleep than a completed assignment and they too became scarce. What remained was a core group of individuals who were motivated by whatever driving force had brought them there in the first place. Granted, there were some who stayed that surprised me.
My dread-locked and doctor-to-be counterparts made a showing every day without fail in that first session. They even managed to stay late on occasion to pull driveline components apart with a curiosity that I found rejuvenating. Brad seemed to take heart in the hand full of students that continued to hammer away at the curriculum, and as a reward put us onto cars that seemed to have mysterious problems as riddles for us to solve.
The cars at Emily Griffith had been donated to the school by generous people who saw no use in their repair. They were typically beat-up and neglected, but had some semblance of life left, and thus made the perfect subjects for uninformed cells of students that worked on them. Some of these vehicles ran, but most did not, and as such gave Brad a basis by which to judge our aptitude. Many of the cars were actually still in good condition, but had incurred some seemingly catastrophic consequence which rendered them useless.
Our group adopted a Subaru Outback that, to judge by its interior and exterior, was like new. It didn't run, and as we completed our labs, Brad gave us the time to look into the no-start cause. By taking on this investigation it became utterly clear how the information being conveyed to us seemed to have no real practical use. Popping the hood we seemed to have no idea even where to begin. Although we could install a battery, we had not the vaguest idea of how to test for spark. The ignition system was a complete mystery. Spark plugs were pulled and inspected without a clue as how to test their functionality, keys were turned without a sliver of knowledge about their utilization inside the lock cylinder. Starters, alternators, ignition coils - none of this melded into a cohesive pattern despite the many brains assigned to the task. So, we took off the timing belt. It seemed as good a place to start as any.
Days later, we still hadn't figured out how to put a timing belt back on a Subaru. Pulleys and tensioners and seals and bolts were piled at our feet and put back in any which way but right. The belt had come off so easy! What, in God's name, were we doing wrong? How did everything match up? We spent hours and hours, two or three students together, trying to hold various components in place while one or the other of us would desperately try and slide the belt into place. Once the belt actually did go on, covers would be zipped back together and the key would be turned anew only to discover the same ugly result. No start, no progress, no clue. Brad would occasionally stop by and shake his head and laugh to himself. Doctors to be, Rastafarians, conflict managers...it didn't matter. In the end we were the blind leading the blind. So there the immaculate Subaru would sit for the year, its death a mystery. Lazarus would have to wait.
My dread-locked and doctor-to-be counterparts made a showing every day without fail in that first session. They even managed to stay late on occasion to pull driveline components apart with a curiosity that I found rejuvenating. Brad seemed to take heart in the hand full of students that continued to hammer away at the curriculum, and as a reward put us onto cars that seemed to have mysterious problems as riddles for us to solve.
The cars at Emily Griffith had been donated to the school by generous people who saw no use in their repair. They were typically beat-up and neglected, but had some semblance of life left, and thus made the perfect subjects for uninformed cells of students that worked on them. Some of these vehicles ran, but most did not, and as such gave Brad a basis by which to judge our aptitude. Many of the cars were actually still in good condition, but had incurred some seemingly catastrophic consequence which rendered them useless.
Our group adopted a Subaru Outback that, to judge by its interior and exterior, was like new. It didn't run, and as we completed our labs, Brad gave us the time to look into the no-start cause. By taking on this investigation it became utterly clear how the information being conveyed to us seemed to have no real practical use. Popping the hood we seemed to have no idea even where to begin. Although we could install a battery, we had not the vaguest idea of how to test for spark. The ignition system was a complete mystery. Spark plugs were pulled and inspected without a clue as how to test their functionality, keys were turned without a sliver of knowledge about their utilization inside the lock cylinder. Starters, alternators, ignition coils - none of this melded into a cohesive pattern despite the many brains assigned to the task. So, we took off the timing belt. It seemed as good a place to start as any.
Days later, we still hadn't figured out how to put a timing belt back on a Subaru. Pulleys and tensioners and seals and bolts were piled at our feet and put back in any which way but right. The belt had come off so easy! What, in God's name, were we doing wrong? How did everything match up? We spent hours and hours, two or three students together, trying to hold various components in place while one or the other of us would desperately try and slide the belt into place. Once the belt actually did go on, covers would be zipped back together and the key would be turned anew only to discover the same ugly result. No start, no progress, no clue. Brad would occasionally stop by and shake his head and laugh to himself. Doctors to be, Rastafarians, conflict managers...it didn't matter. In the end we were the blind leading the blind. So there the immaculate Subaru would sit for the year, its death a mystery. Lazarus would have to wait.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
The Missing X-Man:Origins
I read a lot of comic books growing up (alright, already! you got me, I would still read a lot of comic books if I had the time), which imbibed a sense of heroism that I was never quite able to shake. I'm not painting a rosy picture of myself, because anyone that knows me knows that my good intentions often fall flat on their face. But the move to Emily Griffith was not necessarily the whim it appeared to be.
In the years leading up to the return to school, and the dream of owning a auto repair shop, was a understandable chain of employment that on the surface had little to do with where I landed some time later. At the conclusion of my college years in Oregon, and full of piss and vinegar, I pursued a vocation that related to my degree as any naive college grad is prone to doing. I had resolutely decided that I would be a classical guitar performer and teacher and that the world would immediately recognize my talents as skilled composer and stringed instrument wizard (damn you again comic books!) When I was fired from my first job out of college at a music store a few months later, the fissures in my wall of denial became apparent. From fissures to cracks and cracks to gaping holes and finally the crumbling mortar of assumption scattered at my feet, the first dream died when the wall came down. This lead to a number of stints at coffee shops which kept me poor and humble. A break came when I was swayed to become a part on an Americorps program working with at-risk teenagers. Quite suddenly my perspective changed and I was drawn to more humanitarian work than I had ever suspected would interest me. I made a move back to Denver in 2000 and involved myself in the Public School system, day-treatment centers for youth and finally as a conflict-resolution trainer at a local non-profit.
It was in this final role that a new venture began gnawing at my brain. For nearly four years I hammered away at troubled teenagers by parlaying a message of peace and non-violence and a better life. In this post I was made aware daily of one all- consuming message: money. Always there was this struggle for money. The non-profit was in relentless pursuit of money to fund its mission, the students sought money to buy all the fancy stuff that Jay-Z had and maybe a little food, the parents worked three jobs to get the money to buy the house away from the violent hoods, my fellow employees became disillusioned by their work and pursued careers that would bring them more money. In this midst of this, I lost my ability to concentrate on the values I stood up for each day and could think of only one thing: what if I opened a business that provided money to a non-profit and a community? Let the business worry about the money and the non-profit continue it teachings. However, I was not willing to open any business, because I wanted to do something where I felt like I was actually helping people. I had dabbled in web-design, which I knew had a lucrative future, but was I really doing anything to better the community?
Instead of thinking of those businesses that I loved (restaurants and coffee-shops and music stores), I began thinking of those that I hated. It came to me as I listened to Click and Clack the Tappit Brothers one Sunday on Public Radio. Car repair - that was the business model that perturbed me the most. Its sleazy, pushy sales and veiled motives. The sense of entitlement that shop owners seemed to emanate, as if their low-profile post gave them the right to charge abysmally large sums of money to people for work that did not warrant such extremes. Plus, I liked working on cars, or at least thinking I could. And wouldn't the means justify the ends if the shop gave back to the community? Yes! Plus, I could put in a coffee shop and still have my dream, Yes!
I gave notice at the non-profit that I was going back to school and on a hot, end of summer day, began my new life.
In the years leading up to the return to school, and the dream of owning a auto repair shop, was a understandable chain of employment that on the surface had little to do with where I landed some time later. At the conclusion of my college years in Oregon, and full of piss and vinegar, I pursued a vocation that related to my degree as any naive college grad is prone to doing. I had resolutely decided that I would be a classical guitar performer and teacher and that the world would immediately recognize my talents as skilled composer and stringed instrument wizard (damn you again comic books!) When I was fired from my first job out of college at a music store a few months later, the fissures in my wall of denial became apparent. From fissures to cracks and cracks to gaping holes and finally the crumbling mortar of assumption scattered at my feet, the first dream died when the wall came down. This lead to a number of stints at coffee shops which kept me poor and humble. A break came when I was swayed to become a part on an Americorps program working with at-risk teenagers. Quite suddenly my perspective changed and I was drawn to more humanitarian work than I had ever suspected would interest me. I made a move back to Denver in 2000 and involved myself in the Public School system, day-treatment centers for youth and finally as a conflict-resolution trainer at a local non-profit.
It was in this final role that a new venture began gnawing at my brain. For nearly four years I hammered away at troubled teenagers by parlaying a message of peace and non-violence and a better life. In this post I was made aware daily of one all- consuming message: money. Always there was this struggle for money. The non-profit was in relentless pursuit of money to fund its mission, the students sought money to buy all the fancy stuff that Jay-Z had and maybe a little food, the parents worked three jobs to get the money to buy the house away from the violent hoods, my fellow employees became disillusioned by their work and pursued careers that would bring them more money. In this midst of this, I lost my ability to concentrate on the values I stood up for each day and could think of only one thing: what if I opened a business that provided money to a non-profit and a community? Let the business worry about the money and the non-profit continue it teachings. However, I was not willing to open any business, because I wanted to do something where I felt like I was actually helping people. I had dabbled in web-design, which I knew had a lucrative future, but was I really doing anything to better the community?
Instead of thinking of those businesses that I loved (restaurants and coffee-shops and music stores), I began thinking of those that I hated. It came to me as I listened to Click and Clack the Tappit Brothers one Sunday on Public Radio. Car repair - that was the business model that perturbed me the most. Its sleazy, pushy sales and veiled motives. The sense of entitlement that shop owners seemed to emanate, as if their low-profile post gave them the right to charge abysmally large sums of money to people for work that did not warrant such extremes. Plus, I liked working on cars, or at least thinking I could. And wouldn't the means justify the ends if the shop gave back to the community? Yes! Plus, I could put in a coffee shop and still have my dream, Yes!
I gave notice at the non-profit that I was going back to school and on a hot, end of summer day, began my new life.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Lab #1
Testing vacuum, testing compression, leak down testing, engine removal.
These were the instructions for our first set of labs. Anyone with the slightest modicum of knowledge about cars would categorize these things as easy ways to begin learning about cars and their function. However, this was the a.m. class of a morning and afternoon series. Translation: anyone not actually working in a garage was present in the a.m. and those getting off of work at a garage arrived in the p.m.
Further translation: no one knows what the hell they are doing in the a.m.
As we subdivided into groups, signed for and gathered tools from a somewhat secure cage where these items were loaned out and then, much later, tucked into waistbands and sequestered, the labs began. How a groups of completely inept students can be put to work with sharp tools on explosive objects so quickly was a mystery. Although Brad had at some point in his rambling lecture mentioned the importance of safety glasses, they went from eyes to foreheads to shelf within an hour. Stripped of protective gear, each group began pulling on fuel lines that wormed through engine compartments in vain efforts to disable start-ups.
In my group was a slightly more astute individual, John, who had some experience with cars. This would be to our benefit as the other members, one dread-locked guy who had as an end-goal the dream of repairing jet skis in some beach resort; and another a medical student with some time off and strange desire to fill in his knowledge of car repair; had as much experience as I did. John told us to pay the other imbeciles no mind and he searched amongst the fuses for a relay that would disable the fuel pump, thereby allowing us to complete our lab.
As John essentially did all of the work, talk turned to more important things like drinking beer, the strip bar across the street and why Pep Boys was the worst place to work in the automotive world. John outlined this last point explicitly siting his current line of work at the automotive repair giant. He let us know later and then continuously throughout the semester, how a simple felony in his younger years had landed him at Pep Boys and how he was stuck there until he finished school and could open his own shop. Much like B.A. Barakus, he asserted that he had been charged with a crime he did not commit. "Wrong place at the wrong time," he would say. When probed for details he declined to comment except to say that there was a firearm involved.
John finished the first part of the lab with us well before any of the other groups, but it could be said that we were just as confused about what had been accomplished at the end as when we had begun. We knew what compression was, we know what vacuum was and we knew which porn site Mikey, our dread-locked counterpart, preferred. As to how this related to engine performance was unclear.
At least we had jumped the first hurdle, which was more than could be said for the other groups which were dragging Brad between them like coyotes fighting over an antelope. Each time he moved from one group to another the team he had just finished visiting would generate ten more questions for each of the ones he had answered and would find themselves in holding patterns. Brad, at the end of the four-hour day looked haggard and dejected. He would confess later that he could foresee when a class was going to put him through the ringer, and this one had all the tell-tale signs of going south fast. When the clock indicated that time was up, he pinched the bridge of his nose hard between his fingers and made a beeline for his office, shaking off the students striving to drag him down with questions. In another hour his second class would be arriving.
These were the instructions for our first set of labs. Anyone with the slightest modicum of knowledge about cars would categorize these things as easy ways to begin learning about cars and their function. However, this was the a.m. class of a morning and afternoon series. Translation: anyone not actually working in a garage was present in the a.m. and those getting off of work at a garage arrived in the p.m.
Further translation: no one knows what the hell they are doing in the a.m.
As we subdivided into groups, signed for and gathered tools from a somewhat secure cage where these items were loaned out and then, much later, tucked into waistbands and sequestered, the labs began. How a groups of completely inept students can be put to work with sharp tools on explosive objects so quickly was a mystery. Although Brad had at some point in his rambling lecture mentioned the importance of safety glasses, they went from eyes to foreheads to shelf within an hour. Stripped of protective gear, each group began pulling on fuel lines that wormed through engine compartments in vain efforts to disable start-ups.
In my group was a slightly more astute individual, John, who had some experience with cars. This would be to our benefit as the other members, one dread-locked guy who had as an end-goal the dream of repairing jet skis in some beach resort; and another a medical student with some time off and strange desire to fill in his knowledge of car repair; had as much experience as I did. John told us to pay the other imbeciles no mind and he searched amongst the fuses for a relay that would disable the fuel pump, thereby allowing us to complete our lab.
As John essentially did all of the work, talk turned to more important things like drinking beer, the strip bar across the street and why Pep Boys was the worst place to work in the automotive world. John outlined this last point explicitly siting his current line of work at the automotive repair giant. He let us know later and then continuously throughout the semester, how a simple felony in his younger years had landed him at Pep Boys and how he was stuck there until he finished school and could open his own shop. Much like B.A. Barakus, he asserted that he had been charged with a crime he did not commit. "Wrong place at the wrong time," he would say. When probed for details he declined to comment except to say that there was a firearm involved.
John finished the first part of the lab with us well before any of the other groups, but it could be said that we were just as confused about what had been accomplished at the end as when we had begun. We knew what compression was, we know what vacuum was and we knew which porn site Mikey, our dread-locked counterpart, preferred. As to how this related to engine performance was unclear.
At least we had jumped the first hurdle, which was more than could be said for the other groups which were dragging Brad between them like coyotes fighting over an antelope. Each time he moved from one group to another the team he had just finished visiting would generate ten more questions for each of the ones he had answered and would find themselves in holding patterns. Brad, at the end of the four-hour day looked haggard and dejected. He would confess later that he could foresee when a class was going to put him through the ringer, and this one had all the tell-tale signs of going south fast. When the clock indicated that time was up, he pinched the bridge of his nose hard between his fingers and made a beeline for his office, shaking off the students striving to drag him down with questions. In another hour his second class would be arriving.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Why Education is important...continued.
The teacher directed himself to his dull grey desk, sat carefully in his time-worn chair and pushed one cowboy boot along the floor until his left leg was straight and the heel of the boot rocked back at an angle to linoleum. He raised his hand to the tip of his nose, slid the fingers down across his mustache and goatee and, finally, raked his fingernails across the dry skin at his throat. Rather suddenly he jumped up and clomped to the side of the room opposite me.
“You all know this a Denver Public School,” he began, “As such you will need to follow the rules of a Denver Public School.” As he spoke he made his way from the yonder reaches of the classroom, to my side, moving like a satellite across the front. “My name is Brad, and here is my number when you need to call me.” He scribbled some numbers in faded marker along the whiteboard. “If you don’t call me when you aren’t coming to class, you have an unexcused absence. Three unexcused absences and you have failed and are out of here, no money back, no nothing. In order to pass the class you need to get a seventy percent or higher. Every day that you miss, I take off five percent from your grade unless you have a valid excuse. What does that mean?”
The class was still. We could hear the traffic on the street below.
“What does that mean?” Brad repeated.
“It means if we miss six or something classes, even if they’re excused, we fail the class,” a bushy-sideburned heavy-metaler piped up.
Brad didn’t say anything, only pointed a calloused his finger at the black-shirted teen and pumped his arm as if directing an airplane to land and nodded his head. He seemed to be doing a calculation in his head, unsure of whether the answer was correct or not. Collectively, we all did the math in our heads, but no one said another word. I was too entranced by Brad’s hair to think about paltry numbers.
“Now, when you are here,” he continued after the pause, gliding back to the room’s far side, “there will be no drug use. If I suspect that someone is using drugs while in class or if someone comes to class high, they are automatically out of the program, no questions asked, no nothing.”
There was a grunt of disapproval behind me and the class shuffled excitedly in their seats, warming up to a discussion about drug use. I glanced back and confirmed that the disapproving noise had been emitted by a youth who already look high.
“You mean we just can’t smoke dope while we’re here,” the heavy-metaler clarified.
“You shouldn’t be smoking it at all!” Brad said.
“It isn’t like it is that bad for you. There’s lots of other things that are way worse for you than Marijuana. Like drinking. Alcohol is way worse.”
“Alcohol is not worse than Marijuana,” Brett contended.
“Oh come on, Brad. Think about it,” Bushy Sideburns looked around the room for support that he knew was coming, “Weed is natural. Alcohol isn’t. How many people do you hear of that die from Marijuana overdose and how many from drinking alcohol.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Brad, I can bring in articles that compare the two,” offered Bushy and followed it up with a laugh that made his belly jiggle like the Pilsbury Dough Boy.
“It’s true,” the stoned kid piped up.
Brad looked to the rest of the class, focusing intently on the older members of the class who would empathize with his plight. “You see, this is what happens when you smoke too much Marijuana, you start to get your facts mixed up,” he said. He seemed to have lost his original train of thought. “But, regardless of your oponions on the subject, it isn’t allowed in this school.”
“That’s fine, I can just do it when I go home,” Bushy finished, upturning his words in a way that indicated he was anything but finished.
“So,” Brad had begun to pace again, “no drugs, no alcohol. We got any smokers here?” Many in the class raised their hands. “OK. I’ll give you breaks about every hour and a half. So you’ll get about two or three breaks during the afternoon. You can only smoke out in front of the building. If I catch you smoking in the shop, we’re gonna have issues. Now, back to the grades. Like I said before, your grade is built on percentages. If you show up every day, just show up, you automatically get forty percent. Thirty percent of your grade is based on your turning in of papers and completing the labs. Ten percent is quizzes and the other twenty percent is the final exam. You’re also going to want to bring clothes to get dirty in. Believe it or not you actually get dirty in this class.”
“So is this okay?” asked Bushy, whose name was Darryl, pointing to his black t-shirt.
“Yeah, it’s fine. One thing…”
“But Brad, what about that kid you kicked out last year for wearing that one shirt?”
Brad’s words seemed to flow like a river over Darryl's pronouncements as he did his best to keep the monologue going. “You can’t have lude statements on your shirts. No profanity or naked ladies or anything like that.”
“What was he wearing on his shirt again?” asked Darryl. Brad eyed him somewhat warily, and then with resignation, fed into his trap. What ensued was a ten-minute discussion about what was on the shirt. Darryl did most of the talking, his narrative punctuated by Brad’s brief acceptation of the facts. The blight of this ADD-prone attention-hog began to register on me and I knew that he could only be stopped by someone, anyone, forthright enough to tell him to shut the hell up. I waited for a hero, but as not interjection was forthcoming I resigned myself to the doom being laid out by the exuberant outbursts of our gum-flapping classmate.
Despite an eventual return to the original topic of class rules, Darryl's ceaseless opinions multiplied, and my head buzzed with annoyance. He was the only one speaking besides Brad, and he obviously felt the need to issue commentary on each point, as if specific illustration were needed to make the rules sink in.
“You’re all going to need eye protection,” Brad said.
“Oh yeah, tell them about that one student,” Darryl chanted.
“Yep. Had a student last year who didn’t want to wear the eye protection. He was working on the cooling system of a car and the hot radiator fluid came streaming out of it. Pretty much burned his eye right out of his head.”
“It was f*&$% crazy.”
“Oh yeah, and about the profanity in here. If you drop tire on your hand or slam it with a sledgehammer that’s one thing, but…”
“Tell them about the kid who dropped the car off the lift. That was f*&^% crazy too.”
Two hours into the class, we were still reviewing the rules and a smoke break was finally offered, easing the pain of the various puffers whose legs twitched back and forth and burnt yellow fingers flexed spasmodically as the need for their fix grew.
We had made it through the first roman numeral and first letter of a syllabus that contained fifteen roman numerals and uncountable letters. I wondered if I should take up smoking.
“You all know this a Denver Public School,” he began, “As such you will need to follow the rules of a Denver Public School.” As he spoke he made his way from the yonder reaches of the classroom, to my side, moving like a satellite across the front. “My name is Brad, and here is my number when you need to call me.” He scribbled some numbers in faded marker along the whiteboard. “If you don’t call me when you aren’t coming to class, you have an unexcused absence. Three unexcused absences and you have failed and are out of here, no money back, no nothing. In order to pass the class you need to get a seventy percent or higher. Every day that you miss, I take off five percent from your grade unless you have a valid excuse. What does that mean?”
The class was still. We could hear the traffic on the street below.
“What does that mean?” Brad repeated.
“It means if we miss six or something classes, even if they’re excused, we fail the class,” a bushy-sideburned heavy-metaler piped up.
Brad didn’t say anything, only pointed a calloused his finger at the black-shirted teen and pumped his arm as if directing an airplane to land and nodded his head. He seemed to be doing a calculation in his head, unsure of whether the answer was correct or not. Collectively, we all did the math in our heads, but no one said another word. I was too entranced by Brad’s hair to think about paltry numbers.
“Now, when you are here,” he continued after the pause, gliding back to the room’s far side, “there will be no drug use. If I suspect that someone is using drugs while in class or if someone comes to class high, they are automatically out of the program, no questions asked, no nothing.”
There was a grunt of disapproval behind me and the class shuffled excitedly in their seats, warming up to a discussion about drug use. I glanced back and confirmed that the disapproving noise had been emitted by a youth who already look high.
“You mean we just can’t smoke dope while we’re here,” the heavy-metaler clarified.
“You shouldn’t be smoking it at all!” Brad said.
“It isn’t like it is that bad for you. There’s lots of other things that are way worse for you than Marijuana. Like drinking. Alcohol is way worse.”
“Alcohol is not worse than Marijuana,” Brett contended.
“Oh come on, Brad. Think about it,” Bushy Sideburns looked around the room for support that he knew was coming, “Weed is natural. Alcohol isn’t. How many people do you hear of that die from Marijuana overdose and how many from drinking alcohol.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Brad, I can bring in articles that compare the two,” offered Bushy and followed it up with a laugh that made his belly jiggle like the Pilsbury Dough Boy.
“It’s true,” the stoned kid piped up.
Brad looked to the rest of the class, focusing intently on the older members of the class who would empathize with his plight. “You see, this is what happens when you smoke too much Marijuana, you start to get your facts mixed up,” he said. He seemed to have lost his original train of thought. “But, regardless of your oponions on the subject, it isn’t allowed in this school.”
“That’s fine, I can just do it when I go home,” Bushy finished, upturning his words in a way that indicated he was anything but finished.
“So,” Brad had begun to pace again, “no drugs, no alcohol. We got any smokers here?” Many in the class raised their hands. “OK. I’ll give you breaks about every hour and a half. So you’ll get about two or three breaks during the afternoon. You can only smoke out in front of the building. If I catch you smoking in the shop, we’re gonna have issues. Now, back to the grades. Like I said before, your grade is built on percentages. If you show up every day, just show up, you automatically get forty percent. Thirty percent of your grade is based on your turning in of papers and completing the labs. Ten percent is quizzes and the other twenty percent is the final exam. You’re also going to want to bring clothes to get dirty in. Believe it or not you actually get dirty in this class.”
“So is this okay?” asked Bushy, whose name was Darryl, pointing to his black t-shirt.
“Yeah, it’s fine. One thing…”
“But Brad, what about that kid you kicked out last year for wearing that one shirt?”
Brad’s words seemed to flow like a river over Darryl's pronouncements as he did his best to keep the monologue going. “You can’t have lude statements on your shirts. No profanity or naked ladies or anything like that.”
“What was he wearing on his shirt again?” asked Darryl. Brad eyed him somewhat warily, and then with resignation, fed into his trap. What ensued was a ten-minute discussion about what was on the shirt. Darryl did most of the talking, his narrative punctuated by Brad’s brief acceptation of the facts. The blight of this ADD-prone attention-hog began to register on me and I knew that he could only be stopped by someone, anyone, forthright enough to tell him to shut the hell up. I waited for a hero, but as not interjection was forthcoming I resigned myself to the doom being laid out by the exuberant outbursts of our gum-flapping classmate.
Despite an eventual return to the original topic of class rules, Darryl's ceaseless opinions multiplied, and my head buzzed with annoyance. He was the only one speaking besides Brad, and he obviously felt the need to issue commentary on each point, as if specific illustration were needed to make the rules sink in.
“You’re all going to need eye protection,” Brad said.
“Oh yeah, tell them about that one student,” Darryl chanted.
“Yep. Had a student last year who didn’t want to wear the eye protection. He was working on the cooling system of a car and the hot radiator fluid came streaming out of it. Pretty much burned his eye right out of his head.”
“It was f*&$% crazy.”
“Oh yeah, and about the profanity in here. If you drop tire on your hand or slam it with a sledgehammer that’s one thing, but…”
“Tell them about the kid who dropped the car off the lift. That was f*&^% crazy too.”
Two hours into the class, we were still reviewing the rules and a smoke break was finally offered, easing the pain of the various puffers whose legs twitched back and forth and burnt yellow fingers flexed spasmodically as the need for their fix grew.
We had made it through the first roman numeral and first letter of a syllabus that contained fifteen roman numerals and uncountable letters. I wondered if I should take up smoking.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Why Eductation is Important
The Emily Griffith Opportunity School spans an entire city block. Even from the institution’s inception at the beginning of the century, its name was synonymous with “trade school”. The overly pragmatic structure, a three-story brick building with many of its external features unchanged since its construction in 1882, was strangely utilitarian and welcoming at the same time. Students of all ages meandered through doors whose paint was chipped and worn away from repeated entry and exit. They came to learn a skill: plumbing, carpentry, nursing, hair-styling or auto-mechanics.
I sat parked in a pay lot across the street from the sun-baked building, measuring my thoughts and the extent to which I was about to commit. Should I really be doing this? My wife would suffer, supporting me as I split my time between the class and my work. My job would suffer, as I would no longer be able to mentally consign myself to the betterment of youth as my empoyer had required. I would suffer in a manner that I was sure I hadn’t even grasped yet. I gazed at the entrance where, years before, a tenacious woman with a dream had opened the doors of a trade school to a horde of people wanting to learn.
The inside of the car was heating up. The windows were open on each of the truck’s four doors, but still the afternoon blaze was beating down on the gray paint, boiling the car and cooking my flesh as I sat. I incessantly consulted my watch, waiting for the hands to reach a point that indicated acceptable departure. I didn’t want to enter the classroom too early, knowing I would then have to sit torpid in my seat while anxiously anticipating the start of the session. It was possible I might even have to converse superficially with a classmate, a scenario I was trying to avoid. I felt a sliver of shame poke my heart as I recognized that, for the previous two years, I had been teaching youth and ridiculing them for being so shy on their first day.
At ten minutes to noon I sighed loudly, cut the radio, locked the car and strode through the waves of heat emanating from the tarmac. I moved past a closed garage door where, through dirty panes, I made out the scratched corpses of emancipated cars sitting pointed towards the rear wall, waiting to be resuscitated. Above a metal door just the other side of the garage was a small placard that said simply, “Auto Shop”. The door was locked.
Stiff-legged, I moved further down the sidewalk trying a successive series of doors, all leading away from the auto shop and all locked. At the end of the building a banner hung from the brick: “Donate Your Car!” it proclaimed in large white lettering. As I angled around the corner my heart rattled away like a snare drum and I began to wonder if I were here on the right day, if the time was correct. I had checked the paper, reading it over and over, but my mind had been clouded as I had processed, for the umpteenth time, my internal struggle. Perhaps I had not truly registered the numbers and times printed on the enrolment form.
Halfway around the school an alley dissected the main building from the shop. At the mouth of the dirty passage lay an open door through which I saw a grizzled man who appeared to be a teacher. He was milling around a classroom filled with scraps of twisted steel and heavy, oily machinery.
“Excuse me,” I asked, a weak shadow of my teacher’s voice issuing from me, “Can you tell me where the entrance to the auto shop is?”
He took me in with his eyes. Sized up my skinny frame and clean hands.
“Right up there,” he said pointing into the alley, “Just through the gates you’ll see a door and some stairs. Head up the stairs and you’ll find the classroom alright.” I could feel his eyes on my back as I turned and skittered away.
Past a parking lot of rusted-out cars and found a door that permitted entry into a cool foyer. A second shop, separate from the one I had seen through the garage door, and filled similarly with dilapidated vehicles to be tinkered with, was visible across the threshold. To my left was a shadowy progression of stairs that led up to a nearly lightless hall. I ascended quickly realizing that the class would begin shortly. The chilled, black hall gave way to a room radiating with fluorescent light. I could make out nothing from my vantage in the corridor, but the sounds of people shuffling around indicated students were present. The final steps were before me, the return to school after a hiatus of 8 years.
The classroom I entered was the cookie cutout of that in any other school across America; save for the slew of automotive extracts, mostly unidentifiable to me, that lay pell-mell around its border. Still, some of the polished relics I recognized as differential, transmission and engine components thanks to the book about automobile fundamentals I been reading at night before I went to bed (my wife had recounted, mockingly, to friends of my evening literary choice). The pieces lined the floor’s edges and populated tables on the fringes of the desks. The room was half-full with other souls who, in the obligatory first-class format, had chosen the seats farthest away from the front as possible. They sat quietly, waiting.
The room was dead silent except for the occasional scrape of chair legs across the floor as someone adjusted their seat, reached for something in their backpack, or craned their neck around to search for a missing class leader. The clock read five minutes past the hour.
When the teacher entered, my eyes were immediately drawn to his hefty belt with champion-sized buckle that reminded me of those won by the reigning heavyweights of the World Wrestling Federation or perhaps a bull-rider of the highest caliber. He walked with a kind of swagger, perhaps because the jeans were too tight, or perhaps because he had just ridden in on a horse and had yet to lose the saddle from his stride. However, all elements of his appearance were superseded by the crowning glory of his hair. Granted, this was one of the first things I noticed on a person, mostly because mine was slowly abandoning any effort to live, but in all honesty, I failed to see how anyone could not take note of it. Immaculately coiffed, it was a thick swatch of symmetry-perfect lines held in place by gel that gave it the appearance of lashings of cable on suspension bridge. Shaped like a helmet, it would take a hurricane-proportioned wind to move a single follicle from its home. You could almost hear the wind whistle through it as through a chain-link fence somewhere down on the Texas-Mexico border.
“Wellllla…” He said in a deep baritone, “would you look at this class!”
I sat parked in a pay lot across the street from the sun-baked building, measuring my thoughts and the extent to which I was about to commit. Should I really be doing this? My wife would suffer, supporting me as I split my time between the class and my work. My job would suffer, as I would no longer be able to mentally consign myself to the betterment of youth as my empoyer had required. I would suffer in a manner that I was sure I hadn’t even grasped yet. I gazed at the entrance where, years before, a tenacious woman with a dream had opened the doors of a trade school to a horde of people wanting to learn.
The inside of the car was heating up. The windows were open on each of the truck’s four doors, but still the afternoon blaze was beating down on the gray paint, boiling the car and cooking my flesh as I sat. I incessantly consulted my watch, waiting for the hands to reach a point that indicated acceptable departure. I didn’t want to enter the classroom too early, knowing I would then have to sit torpid in my seat while anxiously anticipating the start of the session. It was possible I might even have to converse superficially with a classmate, a scenario I was trying to avoid. I felt a sliver of shame poke my heart as I recognized that, for the previous two years, I had been teaching youth and ridiculing them for being so shy on their first day.
At ten minutes to noon I sighed loudly, cut the radio, locked the car and strode through the waves of heat emanating from the tarmac. I moved past a closed garage door where, through dirty panes, I made out the scratched corpses of emancipated cars sitting pointed towards the rear wall, waiting to be resuscitated. Above a metal door just the other side of the garage was a small placard that said simply, “Auto Shop”. The door was locked.
Stiff-legged, I moved further down the sidewalk trying a successive series of doors, all leading away from the auto shop and all locked. At the end of the building a banner hung from the brick: “Donate Your Car!” it proclaimed in large white lettering. As I angled around the corner my heart rattled away like a snare drum and I began to wonder if I were here on the right day, if the time was correct. I had checked the paper, reading it over and over, but my mind had been clouded as I had processed, for the umpteenth time, my internal struggle. Perhaps I had not truly registered the numbers and times printed on the enrolment form.
Halfway around the school an alley dissected the main building from the shop. At the mouth of the dirty passage lay an open door through which I saw a grizzled man who appeared to be a teacher. He was milling around a classroom filled with scraps of twisted steel and heavy, oily machinery.
“Excuse me,” I asked, a weak shadow of my teacher’s voice issuing from me, “Can you tell me where the entrance to the auto shop is?”
He took me in with his eyes. Sized up my skinny frame and clean hands.
“Right up there,” he said pointing into the alley, “Just through the gates you’ll see a door and some stairs. Head up the stairs and you’ll find the classroom alright.” I could feel his eyes on my back as I turned and skittered away.
Past a parking lot of rusted-out cars and found a door that permitted entry into a cool foyer. A second shop, separate from the one I had seen through the garage door, and filled similarly with dilapidated vehicles to be tinkered with, was visible across the threshold. To my left was a shadowy progression of stairs that led up to a nearly lightless hall. I ascended quickly realizing that the class would begin shortly. The chilled, black hall gave way to a room radiating with fluorescent light. I could make out nothing from my vantage in the corridor, but the sounds of people shuffling around indicated students were present. The final steps were before me, the return to school after a hiatus of 8 years.
The classroom I entered was the cookie cutout of that in any other school across America; save for the slew of automotive extracts, mostly unidentifiable to me, that lay pell-mell around its border. Still, some of the polished relics I recognized as differential, transmission and engine components thanks to the book about automobile fundamentals I been reading at night before I went to bed (my wife had recounted, mockingly, to friends of my evening literary choice). The pieces lined the floor’s edges and populated tables on the fringes of the desks. The room was half-full with other souls who, in the obligatory first-class format, had chosen the seats farthest away from the front as possible. They sat quietly, waiting.
The room was dead silent except for the occasional scrape of chair legs across the floor as someone adjusted their seat, reached for something in their backpack, or craned their neck around to search for a missing class leader. The clock read five minutes past the hour.
When the teacher entered, my eyes were immediately drawn to his hefty belt with champion-sized buckle that reminded me of those won by the reigning heavyweights of the World Wrestling Federation or perhaps a bull-rider of the highest caliber. He walked with a kind of swagger, perhaps because the jeans were too tight, or perhaps because he had just ridden in on a horse and had yet to lose the saddle from his stride. However, all elements of his appearance were superseded by the crowning glory of his hair. Granted, this was one of the first things I noticed on a person, mostly because mine was slowly abandoning any effort to live, but in all honesty, I failed to see how anyone could not take note of it. Immaculately coiffed, it was a thick swatch of symmetry-perfect lines held in place by gel that gave it the appearance of lashings of cable on suspension bridge. Shaped like a helmet, it would take a hurricane-proportioned wind to move a single follicle from its home. You could almost hear the wind whistle through it as through a chain-link fence somewhere down on the Texas-Mexico border.
“Wellllla…” He said in a deep baritone, “would you look at this class!”
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Humble Beginnings
I get asked quite a bit how I got into the crazy business of car-repair and coffee shop cavorting when really, my background is in non-profit work and music performance and a dabbling in web-design. Let me make it clear, I wonder the same thing myself pretty much every day. You see, it's quite possible that I could sit behind a computer and write code, and make, uh, septuple the amount of money I make now. In addition I would have weekends off, let somebody else deal with the stress of overhead and cash flow and profit and loss...
But, really, I'm still gunning for that book deal!
Actually, I just like knowing that I'm helping people. I know it sounds cheesy and that there are a ton of other ways to help people and never worry about having dirty fingernails, or being second-guessed about my motives; but this business is exciting.
The same year that I got married, my poor, then unaware wife, agreed to my going to school even before the vows were out of her mouth. I enrolled in classes in Denver to begin learning what the heck I was getting myself into; which became a catalyst for the writing that was to follow. When the business opened, the writing got sidelined and only three years later began to imprint itself on my brain whenever I awoke.
I've decided to split the difference between owning a business and writing a book by putting out small excerpts of my experience on this blog over the next several months, and just seeing if you find it as hilarious and strange and disturbing as I did. Maybe you can learn from my mistakes...
Happy reading!
But, really, I'm still gunning for that book deal!
Actually, I just like knowing that I'm helping people. I know it sounds cheesy and that there are a ton of other ways to help people and never worry about having dirty fingernails, or being second-guessed about my motives; but this business is exciting.
The same year that I got married, my poor, then unaware wife, agreed to my going to school even before the vows were out of her mouth. I enrolled in classes in Denver to begin learning what the heck I was getting myself into; which became a catalyst for the writing that was to follow. When the business opened, the writing got sidelined and only three years later began to imprint itself on my brain whenever I awoke.
I've decided to split the difference between owning a business and writing a book by putting out small excerpts of my experience on this blog over the next several months, and just seeing if you find it as hilarious and strange and disturbing as I did. Maybe you can learn from my mistakes...
Happy reading!
Friday, April 9, 2010
Free Diet Coke...For The Masses
I just have to say, being a shop owner is not always about the business. Sometimes, the business location is more entertaining in and of itself than the work that goes on inside the walls.
So, I have to just write a short excerpt on that which is observed from my humble little stool looking out on to the cross streets of Kipling and 26th!
Being on a corner lot, we are susceptible to cars that like to cut through our property in order to save a few precious seconds of actually waiting at a red light to make a right turn. Some times, the cars that come through do so at such a high rate of speed that it is a sheer wonder that no one is sent flying across our porch (yes, we have considered a speed bump...) In the early years, this resulted, before we installed a perimeter fence on our porch, in a few cars actually driving up and over the two-foot high concrete slab of our patio, and Dukes of Hazzarding themselves onto the other side with tailpipe scraping behind them.
The other day, it was extraordinarily amusing to watch one gentleman in his very expensive SUV cut through the lot and accidentally hit his rear hatchback button, which simultaneously sent three cases of Diet Coke skidding into the middle of the road. He actually pulled back into our parking lot, ruminated on the whether or not he would venture into the street to collect the debris. Then, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, blasted back onto the street to head home leaving his Exxon-Coke spillage to fester on the hot tarmac. Although this was indeed amusing and sad, what followed really kept me entertained. On the brink of closing the shop, I made plans to go into the street and clean up the mess like a good Samaritan. Just before I went out, however, someone pulled up in a van that had a huge logo on the side that said something like "Eco-Corp" (I'll not use the real name to save face for this eco-friendly enterprise). The eco-friendly driver popped out of the car and darted into the street. "Aw," I thought, "that's great. I'm not the only one who cares about cleaning this up." But, alas, she bent down, snatched up exactly one can of soda, took her life in her hands as she crossed in the middle of the street again, seated herself back behind the wheel and popped the can open for a nice long swig of sugary-goodness. She then proceeded to peel-out of our lot leaving the cardboard and aluminum lolling about the street.
So, I went and changed and geared myself up, yet again, to clean the mess. Luckily, when I came out, some other caring individual had thrown on his hazard lights in the middle of the street and was seeing to the mess. Actually, he had cracked open the window of his beat-up old Ford and was chucking cans through the open window with as much purpose as his bulbous form would allow. When he was done, with perspiration, obvious even from a distance, matting his hair, he realigned himself behind the steering wheel of his truck and accelerated conspiratorially onto a side street to enjoy the loot he had stumbled across. Meanwhile, all the cardboard and bags he had left behind blew into the beautiful park on the other side of the intersection, soiling its greeness with their silverness.
I took these events as life lessons. Really. Someone who doesn't care for their lost items, someone who cares only a little, and someone who cares maybe a little too much...about Diet Coke. As fate would have it, one can was overlooked and rolled into the gutter. I picked this up to share with my employees the next day in lieu of a Christmas Bonus.
So, I have to just write a short excerpt on that which is observed from my humble little stool looking out on to the cross streets of Kipling and 26th!
Being on a corner lot, we are susceptible to cars that like to cut through our property in order to save a few precious seconds of actually waiting at a red light to make a right turn. Some times, the cars that come through do so at such a high rate of speed that it is a sheer wonder that no one is sent flying across our porch (yes, we have considered a speed bump...) In the early years, this resulted, before we installed a perimeter fence on our porch, in a few cars actually driving up and over the two-foot high concrete slab of our patio, and Dukes of Hazzarding themselves onto the other side with tailpipe scraping behind them.
The other day, it was extraordinarily amusing to watch one gentleman in his very expensive SUV cut through the lot and accidentally hit his rear hatchback button, which simultaneously sent three cases of Diet Coke skidding into the middle of the road. He actually pulled back into our parking lot, ruminated on the whether or not he would venture into the street to collect the debris. Then, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, blasted back onto the street to head home leaving his Exxon-Coke spillage to fester on the hot tarmac. Although this was indeed amusing and sad, what followed really kept me entertained. On the brink of closing the shop, I made plans to go into the street and clean up the mess like a good Samaritan. Just before I went out, however, someone pulled up in a van that had a huge logo on the side that said something like "Eco-Corp" (I'll not use the real name to save face for this eco-friendly enterprise). The eco-friendly driver popped out of the car and darted into the street. "Aw," I thought, "that's great. I'm not the only one who cares about cleaning this up." But, alas, she bent down, snatched up exactly one can of soda, took her life in her hands as she crossed in the middle of the street again, seated herself back behind the wheel and popped the can open for a nice long swig of sugary-goodness. She then proceeded to peel-out of our lot leaving the cardboard and aluminum lolling about the street.
So, I went and changed and geared myself up, yet again, to clean the mess. Luckily, when I came out, some other caring individual had thrown on his hazard lights in the middle of the street and was seeing to the mess. Actually, he had cracked open the window of his beat-up old Ford and was chucking cans through the open window with as much purpose as his bulbous form would allow. When he was done, with perspiration, obvious even from a distance, matting his hair, he realigned himself behind the steering wheel of his truck and accelerated conspiratorially onto a side street to enjoy the loot he had stumbled across. Meanwhile, all the cardboard and bags he had left behind blew into the beautiful park on the other side of the intersection, soiling its greeness with their silverness.
I took these events as life lessons. Really. Someone who doesn't care for their lost items, someone who cares only a little, and someone who cares maybe a little too much...about Diet Coke. As fate would have it, one can was overlooked and rolled into the gutter. I picked this up to share with my employees the next day in lieu of a Christmas Bonus.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Fiddle Faddle and What Kind of Cars to Buy
Here I sit, at my desk, snacking on Fiddle Faddle because it is the only simultaneously awful and addicting thing I can find to nibble on. As I chew on the terrible stuff (oh so good!) it help stir the juices for my latest and much overdue dose of information.
I get the question far too often from people whose vehicles are making a slow exodus: rather than spend $3000 fixing my beloved Taurus up, what do YOU think I should buy? I have a somewhat stock answer for this eternal question, by means of which I will also outline a small history.
Look, I never was one of those guys who poured over Motor Trend and Auto Week and other similarly titled magazines which make presumptive arguments about horsepower and torque. I can probably count on one hand the customers I have come in contact with that actually understand these terms or care about them. Besides, those folks on that hand already have souped up cars and therefore need not the opinion of yours truly.
So, this is actually for you - dedicated readers - who veer toward practical, reliable, easy-to-understand vehicles that are not the product of ridiculous engineering acrobatics. I can tell you what I see as a business owner and how certain cars are wonderful and always seem to have little in the way of maintenance, less in the way of cost, and lots of availability of parts in the aftermarket; and those despicable machines that cost $500 per backfire and for which parts must be shipped from Siberia.
OK. One word: Honda. There simply isn't a better car maker out there. I know they are a little pricier - but the things are awesome. Easy to work on, extraordinarily reliable, maybe a wee bit boring I grant you. But, they seem to have everything right. There is a unbelievable lack of pretension associated with these cars and if the maintenance is done - they'll drive 300,000 miles and cost you a fraction of what other cars cost over the long term. I'll also tell you that Toyotas are great. Even with the issues recently with an accelerator problem, they are still excellent cars. Both these makers have their share of funky models that DO seem to have problems (hello CRV!), but other models are solid: Accord, Civic, Camry, Corolla, Tacoma and Tundra. Then there are the Subarus, of course. The outback is solid, brother (just make sure the head-gaskets have been replaced on older models...)
Can't afford it you say! Want some American car makers you say! Alright. I understand. I'm going to tell you what my mechanics like, because I already told you how I swing. The Dodge Diesel truck is a favorite of one of my guys and another absolutely loves the Chevy Avalanche (I mean loves!) The newer Chevy Impala seems to receive little scorn, or it's sister the Malibu. Saturns (aside from 1998-2004 years) are remarkably problem-free as are Jeep Wranglers.
I'm quite sure that European car makers have some fine automobiles (we all know they sure does look reel nice), but I believe that the makers of these cars spent too much time sitting in the Louvre pondering ways in which they could make their cars different from all others, and thereby frustrating mechanics across the globe. When we work on these cars we simply shake our heads in dismay and ask, "what in God's name were you thinking?" Sadly, this must have carried over to some American auto makers as well, because Ford sure does some crazy stuff with their vehicles.
I won't pan too many cars, because I'm not trying to make enemies. I'm just hoping to give you THE INSIDE SCOOP.
And, I'll end with one last thought. No matter which car you buy, please, get the thing inspected. I can't tell you how many lemons could have saved being purchased had the buyer simply brought the car to the shop for a $60 look-over. That, my friends, is not Fiddle-Faddle.
Hope this helps...
I get the question far too often from people whose vehicles are making a slow exodus: rather than spend $3000 fixing my beloved Taurus up, what do YOU think I should buy? I have a somewhat stock answer for this eternal question, by means of which I will also outline a small history.
Look, I never was one of those guys who poured over Motor Trend and Auto Week and other similarly titled magazines which make presumptive arguments about horsepower and torque. I can probably count on one hand the customers I have come in contact with that actually understand these terms or care about them. Besides, those folks on that hand already have souped up cars and therefore need not the opinion of yours truly.
So, this is actually for you - dedicated readers - who veer toward practical, reliable, easy-to-understand vehicles that are not the product of ridiculous engineering acrobatics. I can tell you what I see as a business owner and how certain cars are wonderful and always seem to have little in the way of maintenance, less in the way of cost, and lots of availability of parts in the aftermarket; and those despicable machines that cost $500 per backfire and for which parts must be shipped from Siberia.
OK. One word: Honda. There simply isn't a better car maker out there. I know they are a little pricier - but the things are awesome. Easy to work on, extraordinarily reliable, maybe a wee bit boring I grant you. But, they seem to have everything right. There is a unbelievable lack of pretension associated with these cars and if the maintenance is done - they'll drive 300,000 miles and cost you a fraction of what other cars cost over the long term. I'll also tell you that Toyotas are great. Even with the issues recently with an accelerator problem, they are still excellent cars. Both these makers have their share of funky models that DO seem to have problems (hello CRV!), but other models are solid: Accord, Civic, Camry, Corolla, Tacoma and Tundra. Then there are the Subarus, of course. The outback is solid, brother (just make sure the head-gaskets have been replaced on older models...)
Can't afford it you say! Want some American car makers you say! Alright. I understand. I'm going to tell you what my mechanics like, because I already told you how I swing. The Dodge Diesel truck is a favorite of one of my guys and another absolutely loves the Chevy Avalanche (I mean loves!) The newer Chevy Impala seems to receive little scorn, or it's sister the Malibu. Saturns (aside from 1998-2004 years) are remarkably problem-free as are Jeep Wranglers.
I'm quite sure that European car makers have some fine automobiles (we all know they sure does look reel nice), but I believe that the makers of these cars spent too much time sitting in the Louvre pondering ways in which they could make their cars different from all others, and thereby frustrating mechanics across the globe. When we work on these cars we simply shake our heads in dismay and ask, "what in God's name were you thinking?" Sadly, this must have carried over to some American auto makers as well, because Ford sure does some crazy stuff with their vehicles.
I won't pan too many cars, because I'm not trying to make enemies. I'm just hoping to give you THE INSIDE SCOOP.
And, I'll end with one last thought. No matter which car you buy, please, get the thing inspected. I can't tell you how many lemons could have saved being purchased had the buyer simply brought the car to the shop for a $60 look-over. That, my friends, is not Fiddle-Faddle.
Hope this helps...
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