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.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
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...
Friday, December 18, 2009
Coffee increases testoterone...reduces cancer.
Here' s a great bit of info from NPR's Science Friday report...
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=121343438
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=121343438
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Two-Way Street
We have discovered two distinct groups of customers that come into our shop: those that love the dealer and will only have work done there except for the occasional oil change, and those that despise the dealer and avoid them at all costs. From our side of the counter you may be surprised to know that we have the same outlooks. We have, on occasion, referred our customers to the dealer when problems seem beyond our grasp or specific equipment is required to get to the bottom of an issue. In the majority of these cases people are happy that their problems get resolved even if it means that their wallets are empty and Christmas gets moved to some time in April. But in other cases the customer may get taken for a lot of money or, equally as bad, we get the short end of the stick from a feisty service advisor or technician who loves sticking it to the little guy.
Here's a recent example of this problem. We had a customer come in from another shop that had just run a diagnostic, and who's car had a "check engine" light on. The other shop told her that she needed a solid tune-up on her vehicle but she decided that the price they were asking was too exorbitant and ours was more reasonable. Typically we ask customers if they would like us to run our own diagnostic to confirm/deny this finding, but the customer is always welcome to decline this if they want. This happened to be the case in this scenario. Regardless, we pull the information from the vehicle that is causing the Check Engine to make sure we don't get reprimanded if the light fails to go off after the repair (which it didn't).
The light in this instance was being caused by a "Misfire on Cylinder 1". This issue can be corrected with a tune-up, but not always. When the light came back on, the customer came back and we checked all the spark plugs and wires and found no problems. The technician then proceeded to switch the spark plug from cylinder 1 with the spark plug on cylinder 2. Sure enough the light popped back up and indicated the misfire on the same #1 cylinder. He then tested and ran a fuel cleaner through the injector system to rule out a problem with the injector itself, followed by a swapping of the #1 injector and the #2 injector. Same code! He deduced that the problem had to lie with the very expensive Cylinder Head or with the vehicle's computer. So, we referred her to the fancy-shmancy dealer to problem solve.
Here's the sad part of this story - you may want to get a tissue to dab at the tears that will likely flow from your ducts - do you know what the dealer told her?
"Maam, you need a tune-up, the plugs and wires that were installed were incorrect." Cost - $145!
Now, if you are paying attention to this fairy tale, you may ask yourself the same questions we did. Think of it like a mystery you have to solve where in the end you are the hero and there is a ticker tape parade in your honor. If the purported spark plug was installed incorrectly, or was itself incorrect...why a misfire on the same cylinder before we even replaced them, after we replaced them, and even when we swapped them! Hmmmm...No other cylinders, just #1. Also, you may realize that the cylinder head was not replaced as that would mean the dealer absorbed the cost of $500 part. Did you solve the mystery?
I can't print this part upside-down like in the paper so you're going to have to just read it as is. The computer had a problem, the dealer tech plugged his scanner in and reflashed it (reset in Macintosh language) and the padded his paycheck with a little tune-up with a garnish of referring to our garage as ignorant. Boom! Customer confused and upset and unwilling to even take a second look at what just happened.
The inside scoop: are all dealers evil? No, of course not. Are some dealers evil? Yes, of course so. Are the customers the only ones that get taken? No. Moral: dealers (or all shops for that matter) need to explain in detail why they are recommending the repairs they are performing on your car. If you understand auto-mechanics and it makes sense -more power to ya! But, if not, feel free to ask the questions necessary to clarify the situation. I know I've published this before, but it bears repeating: people who don't know any better are the easiest target for unethical business practices whether it be auto-mechanics, or plumbing or securing a mortgage. Beware and be smart!
Here's a recent example of this problem. We had a customer come in from another shop that had just run a diagnostic, and who's car had a "check engine" light on. The other shop told her that she needed a solid tune-up on her vehicle but she decided that the price they were asking was too exorbitant and ours was more reasonable. Typically we ask customers if they would like us to run our own diagnostic to confirm/deny this finding, but the customer is always welcome to decline this if they want. This happened to be the case in this scenario. Regardless, we pull the information from the vehicle that is causing the Check Engine to make sure we don't get reprimanded if the light fails to go off after the repair (which it didn't).
The light in this instance was being caused by a "Misfire on Cylinder 1". This issue can be corrected with a tune-up, but not always. When the light came back on, the customer came back and we checked all the spark plugs and wires and found no problems. The technician then proceeded to switch the spark plug from cylinder 1 with the spark plug on cylinder 2. Sure enough the light popped back up and indicated the misfire on the same #1 cylinder. He then tested and ran a fuel cleaner through the injector system to rule out a problem with the injector itself, followed by a swapping of the #1 injector and the #2 injector. Same code! He deduced that the problem had to lie with the very expensive Cylinder Head or with the vehicle's computer. So, we referred her to the fancy-shmancy dealer to problem solve.
Here's the sad part of this story - you may want to get a tissue to dab at the tears that will likely flow from your ducts - do you know what the dealer told her?
"Maam, you need a tune-up, the plugs and wires that were installed were incorrect." Cost - $145!
Now, if you are paying attention to this fairy tale, you may ask yourself the same questions we did. Think of it like a mystery you have to solve where in the end you are the hero and there is a ticker tape parade in your honor. If the purported spark plug was installed incorrectly, or was itself incorrect...why a misfire on the same cylinder before we even replaced them, after we replaced them, and even when we swapped them! Hmmmm...No other cylinders, just #1. Also, you may realize that the cylinder head was not replaced as that would mean the dealer absorbed the cost of $500 part. Did you solve the mystery?
I can't print this part upside-down like in the paper so you're going to have to just read it as is. The computer had a problem, the dealer tech plugged his scanner in and reflashed it (reset in Macintosh language) and the padded his paycheck with a little tune-up with a garnish of referring to our garage as ignorant. Boom! Customer confused and upset and unwilling to even take a second look at what just happened.
The inside scoop: are all dealers evil? No, of course not. Are some dealers evil? Yes, of course so. Are the customers the only ones that get taken? No. Moral: dealers (or all shops for that matter) need to explain in detail why they are recommending the repairs they are performing on your car. If you understand auto-mechanics and it makes sense -more power to ya! But, if not, feel free to ask the questions necessary to clarify the situation. I know I've published this before, but it bears repeating: people who don't know any better are the easiest target for unethical business practices whether it be auto-mechanics, or plumbing or securing a mortgage. Beware and be smart!
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