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The Engine Strikes Back.

I opened the hood of my car today and stared at my engine for what must have been twenty minutes. I wasn't looking for in particular. I was just looking for something familiar.

I have a 2005 Toyota Matrix. I rarely have to do maintenance on my car. You know, the usual oil/oil filter change every 3,000 miles and I change the air filters too. I don't do this to prove my masculinity. I do this because I'm a cheap ass.

Sure, car maintenance on the cheap makes sense if you know what you're doing. But, I do not. So me doing any serious car maintenance is about as smart as buying condoms at the dollar store -- Really?! is that the best way to pinch a penny?

So my engine looks like it's 95 percent plastic. I mean, nothing looks like the old gas guzzling Ford engines that my Dad used to let me "help" him maintain when I was a kid. And not that it would really help if it looked familiar anyway. Dad isn't exactly a motorhead either.

I started getting cross-eyed. I don't know if it was from being confused, or if it was from leaving the engine running while I was in the garage. Whatever. So, I slammed the hood and came up stairs to do some research on what has been ailing my car.

And after watching 2 hours of the History Channel, I'm pretty sure that there's nothing wrong with my Sasquatch. I mean, the jury's still out on those New York City sewer alligators. I don't know. MonsterQuest doesn't appear to be all that helpful. I've also been doing some research at the bottom of a box of Thin Mints I forgot I had in the back of my freezer.

I've wasted most of my night. The closest thing I've found to a grease-monkey has been the bumps on the History Channel advertising a program about Ida, the recently discovered 47 million-year-old missing link fossil. C'mon! If nerdy paleontologists can find some ancient monkey girl near some Nordic lake, then I should be able to repair the car in my garage. I can't believe that it's really that difficult to change a spark plug...

or fill brake fluid...
or change brake pads...
or replace a battery...
or to check a fuel filter...

None of that can be all that difficult. But, apparently finding those parts under the Darth Vader mask on my engine is proving to be a real pain in the ass. Well, there's no point in finding a mechanic at this our. I'd be just as well served looking for a paleontologist.

I'll fix it later. I've got a half a box of Girl Scout Thin Mints calling my name.

An Open Letter to the Naked Guy at the Gym.

Look,

I can tell you're proud of yourself. You pose like Captain Morgan with one leg up on the bench by my locker.

I stand confused-- both your position and your pride seem uncalled for.

Please stop.

Thank-you.