It's all Al Gore's fault. Big time. Years afterwards, in my family's folklore, this traumatic event became known simply as the Al Gore Incident. Personally, I don't know if I'll ever get over it. The sad part is that he'll deny everything, but it's true. Flashback, if you will, to when he was only a heartbeat away from assuming the most important job in the free world. (Editor's note: He was that close to becoming the hiring director at Hooters?) Mr. Gore visited my fair city to give a speech or whatever it was that politicians do. I stumbled into a big traffic jam when a number of roads were closed for security. While that may sound like only a minor inconvenience, I was on a Jeep-related mission. Yeah, it was that important. I had replied to an ad in the classifieds and was on my way to look at a parts washer for sale. Thanks to the delay, I arrived just in time to see some other lucky soul drive away with it.
This parts washer, which was destined to be mine until Al Gore intervened, wasn't just any run of the mill item. It was a Snap-On in nearly-new condition, but at a fire sale price. Judging by the picture, it was a beauty. My head was swimming with visions of greasy Jeep parts becoming sparkling clean. But thanks to Mr. Gore, I had one more dream squashed, much like a potato bug trying to cross a busy road. I let him know my displeasure by not voting for him, but in the end I had to settle for a temperamental mystery brand parts washer that periodically shuts itself off without warning.
This begs the question of whether a parts washer is really that important. Of course it is, because it seems like I've always got some slimy Jeep parts that need to be degreased. This leads to our next question of why I'm always working on my Jeeps. Wouldn't it be easier just to take them to a repair shop and write a check? In many ways, the answer is yes. I'd certainly have a lot more free time, but there's one huge drawback to having somebody else work on my Jeeps. I'd have to explain everything I've done, such as making various upgrades. I can barely keep track of what is installed, so I can't expect anybody else to do any better. For example, even though the title says my Jeep is a '48, the carb is from a '52. Old Jeeps have a very primitive electrical system, so I added a fuse panel and rewired everything, but the wiring diagram can only be found in my head. (I'm not about to ask anybody to look in my brain, considering I can barely find my way around in there, what with vast empty spaces surrounding other sections jam-packed with useless trivia about 70s sitcoms.) You see, in addition to explaining what I've done with my Jeep, I'd also have to explain what I haven't done, which is even worse.
Understand that mechanics tend to ask embarrassing questions about your vehicle. By this I mean they want to know more than just why you have pantyhose in the glove box and an inflatable doll in the back seat. Mechanics ask pesky questions about routine maintenance and the like. In my not-so-humble opinion, I think changing the oil every three months or 3,000 miles is overkill. However, I may have taken it to the other extreme, because I use intervals based on who was in the White House at the time. Call me a sentimental fool, but I doubt I'll ever be able to part with the Reagan-era oil in my old pickup.
Perhaps this answers the question of why I've spent so much time teaching myself to work on vehicles. It wasn't a sense of curiosity. It wasn't for the ability to handle any emergency by the side of the road or trail. It wasn't to save money. It was purely to save face because dealing with mechanics can be so embarrassing. I'm a horrible liar, and all it takes is one raised eyebrow for me to spill the beans about things like the bubble gum sealing the leaky gas tank, the throttle linkage made from a coat hanger, or the nail serving as a cotter pin.
As if dealing with mechanics wasn't embarrassing enough for me, there's another place where I can't get away with the slightest fib. The practitioners of this profession should become interrogators, because they could make anybody crack under their inquisitive gaze. All around the world, polygraph machines would soon gather dust and truth serum would only be used for recreational purposes. Of course I'm talking about visiting the dentist and having to fess up about flossing habits. This would be a good time to take a page from the Clinton playbook and ask to redefine a word or two. If so, I could truthfully say I've been flossing "regularly" if that meant "just once in the parking lot right before this appointment."
All this talk about embarrassment may seem odd for yours truly. As my terminally hip kids have pointed out, I dress like Mr. Rogers, so how could anything else make me blush? Actually, as the years go by there is an amazing freedom in realizing that there's not much else you can do to embarrass yourself. You no longer have to worry about what other people think. I might even finally paint that wood grain siding on my Willys wagon, simply because I like the look, even if nobody else does. I'm free to dress however I please, not caring that cardigans have never been and never will be in style. Best of all, I'll never have to fret over my column, knowing it doesn't matter if the ending is very, very weak....
-Dr. Vern